Through the moonlit orchard, ghostly, passed a cohort quiet mostly, but for bridled horses snorting and a phaeton's lines, unspoken. In the loaming,                                                                                                      apples, gallowed, tarnished silver, in the branches, shivered in that haunted gloam; the ungathered pome. * Shadows rushed the walls and ceiling of my chamber, causing flame and … Continue reading The Ungathered Pome. →