Or whenever the night is nigh,
And the leaves were a threadbare suit
And the fruit of everything
And the viper glode at the root:
And the burden is weary and long
And the spoilers were about
She hath ravaged all the land;
Where she hath left her touch,—
Its beauty shall no more rise:
She hath drawn the wine to her lip.
Like the waves between ebb and flow;
Grievous is every word;
And her lips left many a sting;
Of a bitterly broken song;
It was in the time of fruit;
Is a canker or a pain:
And the world hath space for a sigh.
Her feet left many a stain;
Lo, where the drained grapes drip.
For the blushing blood of the vine,
When the peach began to pout,
Alas, for a sound is heard
Lo, where the vine-branch lies;
Like an asp,—yea, in each part
For a mere wanton sip:
With her mouth, yea, and her eyes
And it comes when the winds are low,
Lying in wait for the heart.
She will never come again,
And the purple grape to shine,
And a memory doth crouch
—She came, and with her hand,