Classic Poem

Within an ancient vineyard
A lonely wine-press stands;
Its beams are rough and knotted,
'Tis bound with rusted bands.
Above it, in the treetops
Where sky and leaflets meet,
Where softly play the zephyrs,
The birds their songs repeat.
Around with clasping tendrils
There hangs the blooming vine;
Or in the golden autumn
The clusters rich with wine.
Of all the press takes tribute, —
The grapes, the sun, the air,
The cooling winds that fan it, —
To make the wine more rare.
And some who taste this vintage
Say that the wine is strong,
And go their way rejoicing
With triumph, and with song.
And some say 'tis most bitter,
And quaff it with a groan,
And take their onward journey
With many a sigh and moan.

For each the wine has flavors,
For each one, what he wills:
To joy it adds its sweetness,
Its bitterness to ills.

And wouldst thou taste this vintage
With power to curse or bless?
The wide world is the vineyard,
And thine own heart the press.