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