Cask? Nay, the vat—where the maker mends

His strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blends

His rough with his smooth, till none can know

How it comes you may tipple, nothing loth,

Body and bouquet both.

"You" being just—the world.

No poets—who turn, themselves, the winch

Of the press; no critics—I 'll even say,

(Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,)

Who for love of the work have learned the way