It would not be believed should I repeat
  How hungry Brother Timothy appeared;
It was a pleasure but to see him eat,
  His white teeth flashing through his russet beard,
His face aglow and flushed with wine and meat,
  His roguish eyes that rolled and laughed and leered! 
Lord! how he drank the blood-red country wine
As if the village vintage were divine!

And all the while he talked without surcease,
  And told his merry tales with jovial glee
That never flagged, but rather did increase,
  And laughed aloud as if insane were he,
And wagged his red beard, matted like a fleece,
  And cast such glances at Dame Cicely
That Gilbert now grew angry with his guest,
And thus in words his rising wrath expressed.

“Good father,” said he, “easily we see
  How needful in some persons, and how right,
Mortification of the flesh may be. 
  The indulgence you have given it to-night,
After long penance, clearly proves to me
  Your strength against temptation is but slight,
And shows the dreadful peril you are in
Of a relapse into your deadly sin.

“To-morrow morning, with the rising sun,
  Go back unto your convent, nor refrain
From fasting and from scourging, for you run
  Great danger to become an ass again,
Since monkish flesh and asinine are one;
  Therefore be wise, nor longer here remain,
Unless you wish the scourge should be applied
By other hands, that will not spare your hide.”

When this the monk had heard, his color fled
  And then returned, like lightning in the air,
Till he was all one blush from foot to head,
  And even the bald spot in his russet hair
Turned from its usual pallor to bright red! 
  The old man was asleep upon his chair. 
Then all retired, and sank into the deep
And helpless imbecility of sleep.

They slept until the dawn of day drew near,
  Till the cock should have crowed, but did not crow,
For they had slain the shining chanticleer
  And eaten him for supper, as you know. 
The monk was up betimes and of good cheer,
  And, having breakfasted, made haste to go,
As if he heard the distant matin bell,
And had but little time to say farewell.

Fresh was the morning as the breath of kine;
  Odors of herbs commingled with the sweet
Balsamic exhalations of the pine;
  A haze was in the air presaging heat;
Uprose the sun above the Apennine,
  And all the misty valleys at its feet
Were full of the delirious song of birds,
Voices of men, and bells, and low of herds.

All this to Brother Timothy was naught;
  He did not care for scenery, nor here
His busy fancy found the thing it sought;
  But when he saw the convent walls appear,
And smoke from kitchen chimneys upward caught
  And whirled aloft into the atmosphere,
He quickened his slow footsteps, like a beast
That scents the stable a league off at least.