The Mystic. [Witter Bynner]

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.