THE VINTAGER.

Among the fragrant grapes she bows;

Long, violet clusters heap her hands;

About her satyr throats and brows

Flush at her smiled commands.

And from her sun-burnt throat at times,

As bubbles burst on new-made wine,

A happy fit of merry rhymes

Rings down the hills of vine.

From out one heart, remorseless sweet,

She plucked the big-grape passion there;

Trod in the wine-press of her feet,

It grew into despair:

Until she drained its honeyed must,

Which, tingling inward part by part,

Fierce mounted thro’ her glowing bust

And centered in her heart.