Big-stomached, like friars
Who ogle a nun,
Quaff deep to their bellies’ desires
From the old abbey's tun,
Grapes fatten with fires
Warm-filtered from moon and from sun.
As a novice who muses,—
Lips a rosary tell,
While her thoughts are — a love she refuses?
— Nay! mourns as not well:
The ripe apple looses
Its holding to rot where it fell.