THE MONASTERY CROFT.

Big-stomached, like friars

Who ogle a nun,

Quaff deep to their bellies’ desires

From the old abbey's tun,

Grapes fatten with fires

Warm-filtered from moon and from sun.

As a novice who muses,—

Lips a rosary tell,

While her thoughts are — a love she refuses?

— Nay! mourns as not well:

The ripe apple looses

Its holding to rot where it fell.