Though the road turn at last br to death’s ordinary door, br and we knock there, ready br to enter and it opens br easily for us, br yet br all the long journey br we shall have gone in chains, br fed on knowledge-apples br acrid and riddled with grubs. br br br We taste other food that life, br like a charitable farm-girl, br holds out to us as we pass— br but our mouths are puckered, br a taint of ash on the tongue. br br br It’s not joy that we’ve lost— br wildfire, it flares br in dark or shine as it will. br What’s gone br is common happiness, br plain bread we could eat br with the old apple of knowledge. br br br That old one—it griped us sometimes, br but it was firm, tart, br sometimes delectable ... br br br The ashen apple of these days br grew from poisoned soil. We are prisoners br and must eat br our ration. All the long road br in chains, even if, after all, br we come to br death’s ordinary door, with time br smiling its ordinary br long-ago smile.