In Tuscany, the vintage season reigns. From trailing vines festooning maple trees The grapes are cut; and everywhere one sees The great white oxen draw the loaded wains Up to the vats where, splashed with crimson stains, The peasants -- men and maids -- bare to the knees, Treading the clusters, sing and sway at ease, Till nought but blood-red must and pulp remains. Rich-colored parable of the plan divine! Throughout all Nature life and death are fused. The grape must needs be crushed before new wine Gives forth its life. So man's dark heart is bruised, Before the true immortal wine wells up, A fount of strength to brim earth's loving-cup. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH by ROBERT BURNS HAMATREYA by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK by CHRISTOPHER DARLINGTON MORLEY ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN by GEORGE SANTAYANA A JAPANESE DWARF TREE by ISABEL ANDERSON INVITES HIS NYMPH TO HIS COTTAGE by PHILIP AYRES THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HYMEN AND CUPID - MARRIAGE AND LOVE by APHRA BEHN |