THOMAS STURGE MOORE
Clusters like odes for victors in the games, Strophe on strophe globed, pure nectar all! Spread such to dry' if Helios grant thee grace, Exposed unto his flames
Two days, or, if not, three, or, should rain fall, Stretch them on hurdles in the house four days'
Grapes are not sharded chestnuts, which the tree
Lets fall to burst them on the ground, where red
Rolls forth the fruit, from white-lined wards set free,
And all undamaged glows 'mid husks it shed,
Nay, they arc soft and should be singly stripped
From off the bunch, by maiden's dainty hand,
Then dropp'd through the cool silent depth to sink
(Coy, as herself hath slipp'd,
Bathing, from shelves in caves along the strand)
Till round each dark grape water barely wink;
Since some nine measures of sea-water fill
A butt of fifty, ere the plump fruit peep,
Like sombre dolphin shoals when nights are still,
Which penn'd in Proteus' wizard circle sleep,
And 'twixt them glinting curves of silver glance
If Zephyr, dimpling dark calm, counts them o'er.
Let soak thy fruit for two days thus, then tread'
While bare-legg'd bumpkins dance,
Bright from thy bursting press arch'd spouts shall pour,
And gurgling torrents towards thy vats run red.
Meanwhile the maidens, each with wooden rake, Drag back the skins and laugh at aprons splash'd; Or youths rest, boasting how their brown arms ache, So fast their shovels for so long have flash'd,
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