Explore "People" by D.H. Lawrence on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THE great gold apples of night / Hang from the street's long bough / Dripping their light / On the faces that drift below, / On the faces that drift and blow / Down the night-time, out of sight / In the wind's sad sough.
The ripeness of these apples of night / Distilling over me / Makes sickening the white / Ghost-flux of faces that hie / Them endlessly, endlessly by / Without meaning or reason why / They ever should be.