(1881-1968 / United States)

The Mystic

By seven vineyards on one hill
   We walked. The native wine
In clusters grew beside us two,
   For your lips and for mine,

When, "Hark!" you said, -- "Was that a bell
   Or a bubbling spring we heard?"
But I was wise and closed my eyes
   And listened to a bird;

For as summer leaves are bent and shake
   With singers passing through,
So moves in me continually
   The winged breath of you.

You tasted from a single vine
   And took from that your fill --
But I inclined to every kind,
   All seven on one hill.

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