NEVER MAY THE FRUIT BE PLUCKED
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ever, never may the fruit be plucked from theboughAnd gathered into barrels.He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.Though the branches bend like reeds,Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkleon the tree,He that would eat of love may bear away with himOnly what his belly can hold,Nothing in the apron,Nothing in the pockets.Never, never may the fruit be gathered from theboughAnd harvested in barrels.The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,In an orchard soft with rot.
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