A word sticks in the wind’s throat;
A wind-launch drifts in the swells of rye;
Sometimes, in broad silence,
The hanging apples distill their darkness.
You, in a green dress, calling, and with brown hair,
Who come by the field-path now, whose name I say
Softly, forgive me love if I also call you
Wind’s word, apple-heart, haven of grasses.
— Richard Wilbur, “Apology,” New and Collected Poems: Richard Wilbur (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1988)