We walked along the terraced olive-yard,
And talked together till we lost the way;
We met a peasant, bent with age and hard,
Bruising the grape-skins in a vase of clay;
Bruising the grape-skins for the second wine.
We did not drink, and left him, Love of mine;
Bruising the grapes already bruised enough:
He had his meagre wine, and we our love.