The old orchard, full of smoking air,
Full of sour marsh and broken boughs, is there,
But kept no more by vanished Mulligans,
Or Hartigans, long drowned in earth themselves,
Who gave this bitter fruit their care.
Here's where the cherries grew that birds forgot,
And apples bright as dogstars; now there is
An apple or a cherry; only grapes,
But wild ones,
Isabella grapes they're called,
Small, pointed, black, like boughs of musket-shot.
Eating their flesh, half-savage with black fur.
Acid and gipsy-sweet,
I thought of her,
Isabella, the dead girl, who has lingered
Defiantly when all have gone away,
In an old orchard where swallows never stir.
Isabella grapes, outlaws of a strange bough,
That in their harsh sweetness remind me somehow Of dark hair swinging and silver pins,
A girl half-fierce, half-melting, as these grapes,
Kissed here –— or killed here –— but who remembers now?
