The grapes the Vintner presses
Below his granite feet
Are bodies, bodies, bodies,
Alive and brown and sweet.
O how the red juice splashes
Around his pounding limbs!
It stains the deepest rivers,
The furthest sunset rims.
O how the Gods his comrades,
When he, the Vintner, calls,
Drain deep the lurid beakers
In their carousal halls!
All night they hold red riot,
"For this is wine indeed!
Then bravo! merry Vintner,
We wish thy work good speed!"
And still the Vintner presses
The grapes with feet of stone,
Until the deep green ocean-cup
Shall hold red wine alone.
FOR NOW COMES SUMMER
For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.
And I must add up figures all the day.
And I must drive a tram the whole day long.
And I must make a living out of words.
For now comes Summer with a thousand birds;
And in green fields the little lambs will play,
Brown birds will lift so loud a storm of song,
For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.
For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.
And I must make munitions right away.
And I must check the biscuits at the base.
And I must plan to slaughter men in herds,
For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.
My brother's lying quiet on his face.
And I must sit and wait and die to-day,
For now comes Summer with a thousand birds.
HARFLEUR