Their couch the pliant strength of lusty grass,
Cool shade of leaves their canopy, “Alas,”
Sing many maidens, crouched upon their knees
Or lain full-length among the flowers for ease,
“Alas, how slow, how slow,
Time’s hobby-horse does go.”
Some hold their hands above their heads, to touch
And handle—Eve-forgetting—fruit, so much
Their cheeks’ colour yet cool unlike their cheeks.
Their taste-stung tongues still tell, how “Every week’s
A week of weeks; so slow
Time’s hobby-horse can go.”
To idle hearts the day is weariness,
And to lax limbs the land heart’s heaviness;
For all their hearts are healed: long time ago
Hunter Love satisfied hung up his bow.
Their song dies down as slow
As Time’s play-horse can go.
Moore, T. Sturge. “Bitten Apples.” The Dial, vol. 2, 1892, p. 15. Dial Digital Edition, edited by Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2018-2020. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2019. https://1890s.ca/dialv2-moore-apples/