Though cruel seas like mountains fill the bay,
Wrecking the quayside huts,
Salting our vineyards with tall showers of spray;

And though the moon shines dangerously clear,
Fixed in another cycle
Than the sun’s progress round the felloe’d year;

And though I may not hope to dwell apart
With you on Apple Island
Unless my breast be docile to the dart —

Why should I fear your element, the sea,
Or the full moon, your mirror,
Or the halved apple from your holy tree?