KENSINGTON

THE great gold apples of night Hang from the street's long bough Dripping their light On the faces that drift below,

On the faces that drift and blow Down the night-time, out of sight In the wind's sad sough. The ripeness of these apples of night

Distilling over me Makes sickening the white Ghost-flux of faces that hie Them endlessly, endlessly by

Without meaning or reason why They ever should be.