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.

by Witter Bynner

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