The Campo Santo at Pisa
FROM the trellis hang the grapes
Maidens with white, curving napes
And coiled hair backward leap,
As they catch the fruit, mid laughter,
Cut from every silvan rafter.
Baskets, over-filled with fruit,
From their heads
Down into the press they shoot
A white-clad peasant treads,
Firmly crimson circles smashing
Into must with his feet's thrashing.
Wild and rich the oozings pour
From the press ;
Leaner grows the tangled store
Of vintage, ever less :
Wine that kindles and entrances
Thus is made by one who dances.