A spot of poetry

Oh, and one more thing. Lately, I've been infatuated with this Millay poem:

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.

Shiverous, huh? So true and beautiful and harsh all at once. It captures the tragedy of the sensuality of the progress of love.

Or maybe it's just peach season again.