By seven vineyards on one hill
We walked. The native wine
In clusters grew beside us two,
For your lips and for mine,
When, "Hark!" you said, — "Was that a bell
Or a bubbling spring we heard?"
But I was wise and closed my eyes
And listened to a bird;
For as summer leaves are bent and shake
With singers passing through,
So moves in me continually
The winged breath of you.
You tasted from a single vine
And took from that your fill —
But I inclined to every kind,
All seven on one hill.
The Cloud. [Josephine Preston Peabody]
The islands called me far away,
The valleys called me home.
The rivers with a silver voice
Drew on my heart to come.
The paths reached tendrils to my hair
From every vine and tree.
There was no refuge anywhere
Until I came to thee.
There is a northern cloud I know,
Along a mountain crest;
And as she folds her wings of mist,
So I could make my rest.
There is no chain to bind her so
Unto that purple height;
And she will shine and wander, slow,
Slow, with a cloud's delight.
Would she begone? She melts away,
A heavenly joyous thing.
Yet day will find the mountain white,
White-folded with her wing.