Echoes of dung haunt the cloister And balm my face in shades of prune, And as each note grows even moister I pluck my bow to its brownful tune. Dancing cherubs parp in turn, Delighting in this swollen scene, And though my lips may lewdly gurn, 'Tis but to hail my love for thee. But passion riseth like the rose, And wilteth in the dying sun Where naked, now, I dance exposed And wilt where once the sun had shone. Suspend each awkward, flailing moment, And hold them in a flask of shame That I may drink my own atonement And relive every droop again. Then casting off, on seas of grief, I'll end this folly while I can For no amount of love's relief Could bid me turn my ship to land.