At the top
of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the
skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
Apples are
deep-sea apples of green. There goes
A cloud on
the moon in the autumn night.
A mouse in
the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is no
sound at the top of the house of men
Or mice;
and the cloud is blown, and the moon again
Dapples the
apples with deep-sea light.
They are
lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the
sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the
moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,
And quiet
is the steep stair under.
In the
corridors under there is nothing but sleep.
And stiller
than ever on orchard boughs they keep
Tryst with
the moon, and deep is the silence, deep
On
moon-washed apples of wonder.
I print this lovely poem to express my pleasure at a short story of mine, 'Apples', being accepted - as a Leonard A. Koval Memorial prize winner, no less - for inclusion in a forthcoming anthology, Gem Street (Labello Press) .
Reading Charles Moore's biography of Mrs T. , I come across the following: "In 1937 Margaret won the Silver Medal at the Grantham eisteddfod for her recitation of John Drinkwater's 'Moonlit Apples'."
Reading Charles Moore's biography of Mrs T. , I come across the following: "In 1937 Margaret won the Silver Medal at the Grantham eisteddfod for her recitation of John Drinkwater's 'Moonlit Apples'."
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