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Poem: Pome - Wemyss's Appalling Hobby:
From the Party Guilty of Committing 'Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn'
Poem: Pome




Old druid drupe: no more nor less

Than scrumpy in the cider press.

Yet more: crisp, tart, sharp, sweetly wet,

The taste our souls cannot forget.

Not cider nor yet Calvados

Can poesy compass.  Nor can prose.

Poetry in its full flower

Lasts at best a mayfly’s hour;

The blossom of the apple tree

Perfumes – pervades – eternity.

The blushing heart of blossoms white

Are parables of souls alight

With bliss.  The sheep beneath the trees,

The busy, pollinating bees,

Are workers in the Godly plan

That vouchsafes cider to the man.

O, malum, malus: Adam’s sin

With envy green but brushed the skin

Of red-ripe apple.  Never fault

What fruits beneath blue Heaven’s vault.

If tree in Eden ever stood

That granted knowledge of the good

It was an apple.  Somerset

Attests that churchly wisdom yet.


Bride-white with blossom on the bough,

Or laden with the autumn crop,

Full-hipp’d, in summer’s grasses deep

– Or starkly widow’d in the snow –

She stands the orchard-nymph we know:

The canopy for cropping sheep,

The realm of butterflies atop,

The refuge of the dozing cow.


From Eden unto Avalon

Hath grace and beauty on her shone.

Nymph, in thy prayers remember me,

With butterfly and kindly bee!




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