old wine to drink!
Ay, give the slippery juice
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose
Within the tun;
Plucked from beneath the cliff
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,
And ripened ’neath the blink
Of India’s sun!
Peat...
|
The dirge is sung, the ritual said, Gone—in his ripe, meridian hour! |
A purple cloud hangs half-way down; Bare masts and spars of our earth-ship, |
Now comes the graybeard of the north: No more the robin... |
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring; Though all the birds be silent,—though |
Pale beryl sky, with clouds |
“se dio ti lasci, lettor, prender frutto |
I know it must be winter (though I sleep)— I know I must be old (how age deceives!)— |
Soft-sandalled twilight, handmaid of the night, |
Ho, a song by the fire! |