I

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,

Guard it well, guard it warily,

Singing airily,

Standing about the charmèd root.

Round about all is mute,

As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks,

As the sandfield at the mountain-foot.

Crocodiles in briny creeks

Sleep and stir not: all is mute.

If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,

We shall lose eternal pleasure,

Worth eternal want of rest.

Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure

Of the wisdom of the west.

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three

(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.

For the blossom unto threefold music bloweth;

Evermore it is born anew;

And the sap to threefold music floweth,

From the root

Drawn in the dark,

Up to the fruit,

Creeping under the fragrant bark,

Liquid gold, honeysweet, thro’ and thro’.

Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily,

Looking warily

Every way,

Guard the apple night and day,

Lest one from the East come and take it away.