Classic Poem

By seven vineyards on one hill
— We walked. The native wine
In clusters grew beside us two,
— For your lips and for mine,

When, " Hark! " you said, — " Was that a bell
— Or a bubbling spring we heard? "
But I was wise and closed my eyes
— And listened to a bird;

For as summer leaves are bent and shake
— With singers passing through,
So moves in me continually
— The winged breath of you.

You tasted from a single vine
— And took from that your fill —
But I inclined to every kind,
— All seven on one hill.