The Golden Apples of the Sun
The golden apples of the sun, Ripe and mellow hanging there, Hold the dreams of the empty youth, A soft scent as they fade in the air.
Such beauty drifts upon a breeze, It dances in the fields so wide, In the stillness of fading light, As summer’s laugh begins to slide.
Wisdom found in simple ways, By the blooms that time forgets, The golden apples of the sun, Still glinting through love’s warm nets.
- William Butler Yeats