  I WALK ’mid vines which rest upon An arbor o’er a garden way Where southern breezes come to play And never-ending races run. The dew drips from the clustering vines, A swallow like a shuttle cleaves The air above and vainly weaves His fancies into unseen lines. But stealing forth and dwelling there Within the shadows of the walk, A perfume comes as when gods talk And their glad breathings fill the air. Scarce seen among the vines the shapes That hold and throw the rare perfume— The tiny bits of early bloom Presageful of the coming grapes. And when they ripened grace the vine, That sweetness shall return again, Like hopes fulfilled to trustful men, And have new life in autumn’s wine. |
|
