A song to spring, full of its own wild self
And soul, that heard the blossom-laden May's
Heart beating like a star at break of day,
As, kissing red the roses, she drew near,
Her mouth's ripe rose all dewdrops and perfume.
Here at this inn and underneath this tree
We took our wine, the morning prismed in its
Flame-crystalled gold.—A goodly vintage that!
Tang with the ripeness of full twenty years.
Rare! I remember! wine that spurred the blood,