— Come live with me and be my love, —
He said, in substance. — There's no vine
We will not pluck the clusters of,
Or grape we will not turn to wine. —

It's autumn of their second year.
Now he, in seasonal pursuit,
With rich and modulated cheer,
Brings home the festive purple fruit;

And she, by passion once demented
— That woman out of Botticelli —
She brews and bottles, unfermented,
The stupid and abiding jelly.