APPLE ISLAND
Though cruel seas like mountains fill the bay,
Wrecking quayside huts,
Salting our vineyards with tall showers of spray;
And though the moon shines dangerously clear,
Fixed in another cycle
Than the sun’s progress round the felloe’d year;
And though I may not hope to dwell apart
With you on Apple Island
Unless my beat be docile to the dart —
Why should I fear your element, the sea,
Or the full moon, your mirror,
Or the halved Apple from your holy tree?
— Robert Graves
