I heard the apple-trees cry:
Is it nothing, nothing to you,
all you that pass by,
that our fair young limbs should fade
and our beauty die?
Is it nothing to you who pass,
eyes sunk in the ground,
that our blossoms in summer grass
should drift, and be drowned?
We clothe the world like a bride
in the days of spring,
yet our blossoms have withered and died,
Soon will you come for the spoil
of our fruitfulness—
red apples that drink from the soil
and your eyes will no longer be turned
to the roadside dust,
for where blossoms flamed and were scorned
will be fruit, for your lust.