The August sun, malign, from midday sky
Glares at the world, a lurid, wrathful eye;
The street-car rumbles in a dusty cloud;
On flinty stones the horseshoes clatter loud;
A drowsy spirit haunts the atmosphere,
No one is moved to speak or wills to hear;
I almost sleep, when sudden every sense,
Roused by a vision, casts off somnolence:
Behold a damsel who with bounding feet
Makes eager haste the speeding car to meet;
Her free locks flow neglected, and her dress
Shows working-day's disordered gracefulness;
Conspicuous beauty dignifies the maid,
And glowing charms unconsciously displayed.
What ails our young conductor? For his eyes
This earth-foam Aphrodite brings surprise.
She thrusts into his hands two apples red.
The car rolls on! the dust-born nymph has fled!
Our young conductor's cheek reflects the flush
Of those fair apples, roseate Maiden's Blush;
He thinks no one has seen,—and, as for me,
For all the world I would not seem to see;
By Love's contrivance or by happy chance
The passengers remain in sullen trance,
And so see nothing. Only one old dame
Reads in my face confusion and self-blame,
Of which she, subtly guilty, knows the reason;
She, smiling, says: “Nice apples, sir, this season.”