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William Butler Yeats

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I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
--
The Song Of Wandering Aengus

 
William Butler Yeats

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On the trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They look like the knuckles of Doctor Reefy's hands. One nibbles at them and they are delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the apple has been gathered all of its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

 
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Kiss and cling to them, kiss and leave them,
Bright and beguiling:—
Bright and beguiling, as She who glances
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What wondrous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
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Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
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Into my hands themselves do reach;
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