Its glittering wreath of blood-red leaves;
But it pays not back the peasant’s cares;
No gold it wins, and no fruit it bears.
It may flaunt its glories on the breeze,
We have no time to waste on these;
Our’s is the Vine near whose goodly root
We seek, and find the jewelled fruit!
The wild-vine springs on the mountain’s crest,
By every wind are its leaves caress’d;
But it sickens soon in the garish ray