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Quotes about vintage, page 12

The Broken Pitcher

Accursed be the hour of that sad day
The careless potter put his hand to thee,
And dared to fashion out of common clay
So pure a shape as thou didst seem to me.

An idle boy, when vintage was begun,
I passed and saw thy beauty for my sin,
And poured unheedingly till it was done
The red wine of my love's first gathering in.

And thou, ah! thou didst look at me and smile
To see me give with such ungrudging hand,
As taking all to thy dear heart, the while
It only fell upon the thirsty sand.

Sad pitcher, thou wast broken at the well,
Ere yet the shepherd's lip had tasted thine.
A god had lost in thee his hydromel,
As I have wasted my poor wealth of wine.

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Passionate Red

Passion blasts with splashing colours -
Crimson of west gifted by the sun,
Scarlet of sparkling vintage wine,
Or blush of a kiss with fervor;
So deep is our lust in color.
Flames of a passionate fire
Kindled by the warmth of desire
Incites burning blood to boil,
Dancing gleefully
On the floors of the inferno.

Hidden yellows of mind
Blown away to ashes
In spiraling wind of the flame,
Leaving places to red-hot glow -
An ardor of highest order
Creates a tickling sense,

This precious moment of pleasure
Enriches red to a royal

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Twenty Gallons of Sleep

MEASURE me out from the fathomless tun
That somewhere or other you keep
In your vasty cellars, O wealthy one,
Twenty gallons of sleep.

Twenty gallons of balmy sleep,
Dreamless, and deep, and mild,
Of the excellent brand you used to keep
When I was a little child.

I’ve tasted of all your vaunted stock,
Your clarets and ports of Spain,
The liquid gold of your famous hock,
And your matchless dry champagne.

Of your rich muscats and your sherries fine,
I’ve drunk both well and deep;
Then measure me out, O merchant mine,
Twenty gallons of sleep.

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Election day wishes!

At last the day has come for you all to decide,
Whom you like the most and want to elect,
Republicans speak the theory of convenience,
Completely forgot the cause of their creation,
Democrats also in the same vintage car,
Painted anew with policies of their own and desire,
Left or right or in the middle, the notion is the one,
Poor should be controlled with the wealth of thin lollypops,
make them to suck more to extract the holy tax,
the rich and businessmen have holes to hide and escape,
the poor are exposed to day's sunlight and night's xenon,
Dreams are left for them to dream to get rest and relax,
On the shores of tiredly uniform low cost vision fares,
Extra size for extra fat, if lead sedentary life,
Extra drugs for the weak, who are strong to get the kick,
As long as children are safe and grow up to be old,
To follow the dream of the ancestral traits,
Not to look before you leap, you are the guardian,
Angels, holding the batons to threaten the world.

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Rudyard Kipling

The Craftsman

Once, after long-drawn revel at The Mermaid,
He to the overbearing Boanerges
Jonson, uttered (if half of it were liquor,
Blessed be the vintage!)

Saying how, at an alehouse under Cotswold,
He had made sure of his very Cleopatra,
Drunk with enormous, salvation-con temning
Love for a tinker.

How, while he hid from Sir Thomas's keepers,
Crouched in a ditch and drenched by the midnight
Dews, he had listened to gipsy Juliet
Rail at the dawning.

How at Bankside, a boy drowning kittens
Winced at the business; whereupon his sister--
Lady Macbeth aged seven--thrust 'em under,
Sombrely scornful.

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Robert Louis Stevenson

In Lupum

BEYOND the gates thou gav'st a field to till;
I have a larger on my window-sill.
A farm, d'ye say? Is this a farm to you,
Where for all woods I spay one tuft of rue,
And that so rusty, and so small a thing,
One shrill cicada hides it with a wing;
Where one cucumber covers all the plain;
And where one serpent rings himself in vain
To enter wholly; and a single snail
Eats all and exit fasting to the pool?
Here shall my gardener be the dusty mole.
My only ploughman the . . . mole.
Here shall I wait in vain till figs be set,
And till the spring disclose the violet.
Through all my wilds a tameless mouse careers,
And in that narrow boundary appears,
Huge as the stalking lion of Algiers,
Huge as the fabled boar of Calydon.
And all my hay is at one swoop impresst
By one low-flying swallow for her nest,

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US peace advocate Rev Jesse Jackson Sr in Malaysia Poem

clogged drains
that have been
stinking for years

rotten rotten
rats, rotten fish,
rotten hold backs
refuse rotten corpses
that send offensives
stomach up
stucked, stubbon
nauseating
spirit draining

where is the
country that should
flourish like a patch
of grass sprinkled
with spring water
growing profusely

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A Song Of Success

Ho! we were strong, we were swift, we were brave.
Youth was a challenge, and Life was a fight.
All that was best in us gladly we gave,
Sprang from the rally, and leapt for the height.
Smiling is Love in a foam of Spring flowers:
Harden our hearts to him -- on let us press!
Oh, what a triumph and pride shall be ours!
See where it beacons, the star of success!

Cares seem to crowd on us -- so much to do;
New fields to conquer, and time's on the wing.
Grey hairs are showing, a wrinkle or two;
Somehow our footstep is losing its spring.
Pleasure's forsaken us, Love ceased to smile;
Youth has been funeralled; Age travels fast.
Sometimes we wonder: is it worth while?
There! we have gained to the summit at last.

Aye, we have triumphed! Now must we haste,
Revel in victory . . . why! what is wrong?

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Edith Wharton

Two Backgrounds

I. LA VIERGE AU DONATEUR
HERE by the ample river's argent sweep,
Bosomed in tilth and vintage to her walls,
A tower-crowned Cybele in armoured sleep
The city lies, fat plenty in her halls,
With calm parochial spires that hold in fee
The friendly gables clustered at their base,
And, equipoised o'er tower and market-place,
The Gothic minister's winged immensity;
And in that narrow burgh, with equal mood,
Two placid hearts, to all life's good resigned,
Might, from the altar to the lych-gate, find
Long years of peace and dreamless plenitude.

II. MONA LISA
Yon strange blue city crowns a scarped steep
No mortal foot hath bloodlessly essayed:
Dreams and illusions beacon from its keep.
But at the gate an Angel bares his blade;
And tales are told of those who thought to gain

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When Poetry Haunted Me

Sudden was the descent of poetry on me
I tottered under its weight
My body heated up like the sun
A frying egg yolk on the pan
My blood started burning…. burning
A strange madness crept across my senses
Intoxicated as by an excess dose of ale
Or drunk with the vintage wine
Or by some mystical disengagement
I started levitating
Wings sprouted up suddenly on my sides
I reeled round and round
Flew up and up
Meteors flashed past
Stars blinked
Larger celestial bodies stood still
Strange sounds fleeted past my ears
My heart palpitated,
Like the rumblings of thunder
My eyes glowed like fire balls

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