 | [Poems by Jackson in] Poems of Places |  |
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VINO SANTO.
Once I read a strange, sweet story,
Of a sacred snowy wine,
Made by peasants on Lake Garda,
Brewed beneath the cross's sign;
Vino Santo called forever,
Sealed with seal of things divine,—
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
Of a sacred snowy wine,
Made by peasants on Lake Garda,
Brewed beneath the cross's sign;
Vino Santo called forever,
Sealed with seal of things divine,—
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
On the first days of October,
Only in a shining sun,
Only in the dew of morning,
Clusters lifted one by one;
Thus begins the solemn vintage,
Vintage with the cross for sign,—
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
Only in a shining sun,
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Clusters lifted one by one;
Thus begins the solemn vintage,
Vintage with the cross for sign,—
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
Pales the autumn, falls the winter,
Lie the grapes untouched and still;
No man hastes and no man hinders
While their subtle juices fill,
Till the sacred day of Christmas,
Day of days, of joy divine,
Then is brewed the Holy Wine.
Lie the grapes untouched and still;
No man hastes and no man hinders
While their subtle juices fill,
Till the sacred day of Christmas,
Day of days, of joy divine,
Then is brewed the Holy Wine.
Past the winter, past the springtime,
Into summer far and late;
For the joy of Vino Santo
They who long must long and wait;
Only glowing heat can ripen—
Glowing heat and cross's sign,
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
Into summer far and late;
For the joy of Vino Santo
They who long must long and wait;
Only glowing heat can ripen—
Glowing heat and cross's sign,
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
Dear, to-day, the strange, sweet story,
Sudden seemeth thine and mine;
Thine and mine and all true lovers,
Sealed by seal and signed by sign;
Silence, patience, from Love's Vintage
Drink at last, in joy divine,
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
Sudden seemeth thine and mine;
Thine and mine and all true lovers,
Sealed by seal and signed by sign;
Silence, patience, from Love's Vintage
Drink at last, in joy divine,
Vino Santo, Holy Wine!
TORCELLO.
Short sail from Venice sad Torcello lies,Deserted island, low and still and green.
Before fair Venice was a bride and queen
Torcello's court was held in fairer guise
Than Doges knew. To-day death-vapors rise
From fields where once her palaces were seen,
And in her silent towers that crumbling lean
Unterrified the brooding swallow flies.
O once-loved friend, who dost in vain implore
My presence, thou art like Torcello's land.
Thy wasted life to me seems life no more.
With all its beauty death goes hand in hand,
I shrink from thee, as on its blighted strand
Torcello's ghosts might turn and fly the shore.
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