Classic Poem

Before she went from grieving,
To where all grief is done,
She walked amongst the apple trees
That grew in Avalon.

I am not good at naming names;
I am not sure at all,
But that it was in Babylon;
The dusk was at the fall.

And through the dwindling of the light,
And clear unto the town,
Was heard the blunt, rich, huddled sound
Of the apples dropping down.

Her plaintive long hands at her side,
Her head drooped as of old,
She was that dwindling of the light,
And the bough growing cold.

Were I to find those apple-trees,
Half-lit, crabbed, slim with dew,
In Tarshish or in Nineveh,
Would I not find her too?

For was not all her loveliness
Blown dimly down the air,
The slender color of her gown,
The sweet dark of her hair?

Perhaps. But I am sure of this,
That clear unto the town.
There will be heard that sound again,
Of the apples dropping down.