Beneath that elm now touseled by that shrew,
Lean Winter. Well!—a lordly vintage that!
With tang of fires which had sucked out their soul
From feverish sun-vats, cooled it from the moon's;
From wine-skin bellies of the bursting grape
Trodden, in darkness of old cellars aged
Even to the tingling smack of olden earth.
Rich! I remember!—wine that spurred the blood—
Thou hast none such, I swear, nor wilt again!—
That brought the heart loud to the generous mouth,