Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love, An ancient aspect touching a new mind. It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies. This trivial trope reveals a way of truth. Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof. Two golden gourds distended on our vines, We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed, Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost, Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque. The laughing sky will see the two of us Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.