The Mystic

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 wingèd 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.