My fair Pomona owns an apple grove,
And from a cord around her throat its key
Hangs tempting me.

For when we pledged ourselves in mutual love,
'That grove,' she said, 'this key of yellowed bone,
Be mine alone.'

And I, half-dazzled by the winter light,
Said—Yes. It seemed so pure and quaint a vow.
It's autumn now.

And what beyond that gate keeps her all night,
How come those rotted apples stain her dress,
I cannot guess.