Olive Fraser, 1909 - 1977
Apple land and fallow gray
Apple land and fallow gray
And fall of mist at holyday . . .
Eaves and sheaves and crowded leaves
And God you bless at holyday.
When I am tired of hills and ways
Long, long yet in the afterdays
And mirth and masques and orchards deep
And market ale and country sleep
And steadfast children gravely brown
And clocks about an old Basque town--
When I am tired of the apple-prime
Blown like a happy harvest-time
In the rich ruin of wrecked hay
A tumbled passion of granary;
I will go down with lonely face
Old landscapes to the loneliest place
Remembering how dawn could be
The vesper of our company
And whose wit crept to bed at four
To rise at nine with further store,
And who had curls, and who had gold hair
And who could play a pixy air
And all slept deep and all could be
A charming silent company.
(and as I read these words aloud within my mind my heart is bowed and in my soul my spirit cries that maker of this intercourse has died)
