The Vintager

Among the fragrant grapes she bows; Long violet clusters heap her hands: And, with bright brows, on him bestows Sweet looks, like soft commands.

And from her sunburnt throat, at times, As bubbles burst on new-made wine, A happy fit of merry rhymes Rings down the hills of vine.

And in his heart, remorseless, sweet, Grew big the red-grape, passion, there; His heart, that, ever at her feet, Was filled with love’s despair.

But she, who ne’er the honeyed must Of love had drained, a grown-up child, Saw in him--merely one to trust, And broke his heart, and smiled.