The Rainy Summer

Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough
And 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 wrinkle on the tree,
He that would eat of love may bear away with him
Only what his belly can hold,
Nothing in the apron,
Nothing in the pockets.
Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough
And harvested in barrels.
The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,
In an orchard soft with rot.

"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside. 

"Wolf! Wolf!" -- and up would start
Good neighbours, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid. 

At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release. 
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.

So good luck came, and on my roof did light,
Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night:
Not all at once, but gently, as the trees
Are by the sunbeams tickled by degrees.