A Fragment

Poem By Radclyffe Hall

The clustering grapes of purple vine
Are crushed to make the crimson wine.

The poppies in the grasses deep
Are crushed to brew the draught of sleep.

The roses, when their glories bloom
Are crushed to yield their soul's perfume.

And hearts, perchance of these the least.
Are crushed for nectar at Love's feast !

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