 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
GRAPES.
Amid the arbor's amber-tarnished vine,
Faint-fluttering to the South-wind's languid sigh,
Under this drowsy haze of mellow sky,
The great grapes droop their dusty globes of wine!
Faint-fluttering to the South-wind's languid sigh,
Under this drowsy haze of mellow sky,
The great grapes droop their dusty globes of wine!
And even amid these bland luxurious hours,
They seem like exiles reft of cherished rights,
Here in our treacherous North, whose Autumn nights
Drop chilly dews upon the dying flowers!
They seem like exiles reft of cherished rights,
Here in our treacherous North, whose Autumn nights
Drop chilly dews upon the dying flowers!
35
Ripe clusters, while our woods in ruin flame,
Do yearnings through your rich blood vaguely thrill
For glimmering vineyard, olive-mantled hill,
And Italy, which is summer's softer name?
Do yearnings through your rich blood vaguely thrill
For glimmering vineyard, olive-mantled hill,
And Italy, which is summer's softer name?
Or do you dream of some old ducal board,
Blazing with Venice glass and costliest plate,
Where princely banqueters caroused in state,
And through the frescoed hall the long feast roared?
Blazing with Venice glass and costliest plate,
Where princely banqueters caroused in state,
And through the frescoed hall the long feast roared?
Or how brocaded dame and plumed grandee
Saw your imperial-colored fruit heaped up
On radiant salver or in chiselled cup,
Where some proud marble gallery faced the sea!
Saw your imperial-colored fruit heaped up
On radiant salver or in chiselled cup,
Where some proud marble gallery faced the sea!
Or yet do your strange yearnings, loath to cease,
Go wandering on till dearer visions rise
Of the pale temples and the limpid skies,
The storied shores and haunted groves of Greece?
Go wandering on till dearer visions rise
Of the pale temples and the limpid skies,
The storied shores and haunted groves of Greece?
Greece, where the god was yours of such renown,—
That sleek-limbed revelling boy, supremely fair,
Who, with the ambrosial gold of his wild hair,
Would wreathe your purple opulence for a crown!
That sleek-limbed revelling boy, supremely fair,
Who, with the ambrosial gold of his wild hair,
Would wreathe your purple opulence for a crown!
| Fantasy and Passion | |