Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Never May the Fruit Be Plucked

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.

1. When You, That at This Moment
2. Sometimes When I Am Wearied
3. I See So Clearly Now My Similar Years
4. Lord Archer, Death
5. She Filled Her Arms with Wood

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