Benozzo Gozzoli
The Campo Santo at Pisa
FROM the trellis hang the grapes
Purple-deep ;
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.
