A land of riotous harvest and of sweat

    VINTAGE

    ALAND of riotous harvest and of sweat, 
    A land where men pull down the boughs to get 
    Plump clusters and then ravage them, a land 
    Where some coarse mystery breeds that must expand ; 
    A festival as ominous as fate, 
    A holiday that will not satiate. 
    Such laughter as must leap up to a creed ; 
    More clusters and more crushings and more speed, 
    Pressure of bubbling fruit on open lips. 
    Squashing and spirts and juicy finger-tips ! 
    For this sun-smothered champaign were accurst. 
    Should Bacchus pass, with glazing eyes, athirst.