The apples

I slept through the alarm this morning and woke up just 20 minutes before my first final  :(  I still don't feel completely awake.

So instead of actually looking through Hart Crane's "Complete Poems", I'm just posting the poem on the next page (after "My Grandmother's Love Letters") for today.  The fifth poem in "White Buildings".  Dedicated to an older artist friend of Hart Crane.  And beautiful (but you'll see that yourself):
_______________________________________
Sunday Morning Apples
  To William Sommer

By Harold Hart Crane

The leaves will fall again sometime and fill
The fleece of nature with those purposes
That are your rich and faithful strength of line.

But now there are challenges to spring
In that ripe nude with head
                                        reared
Into a realm of swords, her purple shadow
Bursting on the winter of the world
From whiteness that cries defiance to the snow.

A boy runs with a dog before the sun, straddling
Spontaneities that form their independent orbits,
Their own perennials of light
In the valley where you live
                                        (called Brandywine).

I have seen the apples there that toss you secrets,---
Beloved apples of seasonable madness
That feed your inquiries with aerial wine.
Put them again beside a pitcher with a knife,
And poise them full and ready for explosion---
The apples, Bill, the apples!