RALPH WALDO EMERSON
It may be in wood or waste At unawares 'tis come and past. Their near camp my spirit knows By signs gracious as rainbows. I thenceforward and long after Listen for their harplikc laughter, And carry in my heart, for days, Peace that hallows rudest ways.
��Bacchus
)RING me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through Undei the Andes to the Cape, Suffered no savour of the earth to 'scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Sux and Erebus,
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread; We buy diluted wine, Give me of the true, Whose ample leaves and tendrils cuiTd Among the silver hills of heaven Draw everlasting dewj Wine of wine, Blood of the world,
�� �
