Classic Poem

The wine has failed? Nay, Mother, cease thy plaint,
Why seek ye me, a stranger at the feast?
It was not I who bade so many guests;
And if they swarm as locusts round the bins,
What wonder if they scour the threshing-floor:
Can men expect to drain an emptied cup?

Already has the feast dragged out too long;
I weary of the wailing zither strings,
The empty clashing of cracked tambourines,
The mirthless jests a third time cackled o'er
By nodding graybeards with the eyes of goats
That set the bride's pale, frightened face aflame.

Do ye not see her lips too tired to smile,
The lashes' curtain lifted wearily,
And the big, brooding wonder of her eyes
That see as Moses from Mount Pisgah's height
The strange, glad nearness of the Promised Land,
See and half fear and know they see in vain?

Can wine run warmer through the bridegroom's limbs
Than that strong flood that sets its tide toward her
And in the very mid-leap of its confidence
Is stilled as quiet as the ocean pool
Flung by the mad sea on the gentle sand
Above the breaker's surge; and all because
She smiled too bravely and her hand sought his
Like a poor, timid birdling frightened home?

And yet there is a glory none can name,
A fragrance in the purple-blooded grape,
A lure of sunshine and the kiss of health
Where wide-cheeked pitchers burst with ruddy foam
And cob-webbed jars are damp with mustiness.
And those that tread the press with crimson feet
Where whitened ankles flash with beaten gold,
Laugh in the sun with cries of sheer content
While songs of vintage echo from the hills
And round the dripping vats the children throng.

Such joys are not for nothing; surely He
Who bent men's backs will lift sometimes the yoke;
He does not frown forever on His world,
And when men laugh they do not laugh alone.

Then why not drink, since wine is never sweeter
Than when the bubbles flush the rosy brim;
The pale bride droops, but fast the hour is nearing
When the last faltering torchlight flickers dim,
And in the bosom of the far horizon
The waning crescent melts her silver rim.

Then why not laugh, since mirth is never fairer
Than when we feel presentiment of pain;
The rocky pathway climbs the beetling crag-top
From whence one sweeps with eagle-eye the plain:
Dull not that triumph with some dread foreboding,
A lurking rainbow shimmers through the rain.

Then why not love, since lips are soft for pressing,
Then why not live when life is new and sweet;
The hour is not yet come when I must clamber
With burdened shoulders up the hooting street:
Go, wash the wine jars with untainted water
And lay the vintage at the Master's feet.