Quotes about vintage, page 15
Tuscany
Cisterns and stones; the fig-tree in the wall
Casts down her shadow, ashen as her boughs,
Across the road, across the thick white dust.
Down from the hill the slow white oxen crawl,
Dragging the purple waggon heaped with must,
With scarlet tassels on their milky brows,
Gentle as evening moths. Beneath the yoke
Lounging against the shaft they fitful strain
To draw the waggon on its creaking spoke,
And all the vineyard folk
With staves and shouldered tools surround the wain.
The wooden shovels take the purple stain,
The dusk is heavy with the wine's warm load;
Here the long sense of classic measure cures
The spirit weary of its difficult pain;
Here the old Bacchic piety endures,
Here the sweet legends of the world remain.
Homeric waggons lumbering the road;
Virgilian litanies among the bine;
Pastoral sloth of flocks beneath the pine;
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poem by Victoria Sackville-West
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Winston Churchill My Kind Of Host
Let us party with Winnie
Winston Churchill.
Perhaps we might partake
of brandy and cigars?
I rather liked the wine tipped
rum flavoured cigars as a lad.
Winnie is my kind of host
Champagne Pol Roger.
Winnie offers guests unlimited
Champagne, Cigars and Brandy.
Champagne chilled a little please
room temperature simply appalls.
Champagne in the refrigerator
an hour and a half before serving please.
Or into the ice bucket with a suitable
ice-water mixture, at least twenty minutes,
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Duet
I was smoking a cigarette;
Maud, my wife, and the tenor McKey
Were singing together a blithe duet,
And days it were better I should forget
Came suddenly back to me,
Days when life seemed a gay masque ball
And to love and be loved as the sum of it all.
As they sang together the whole scene fled,
The room’s rich hangings, the sweet home air,
Stately Maud, with her proud blonde head,
And I seemed to see in her place instead
A wealth of blue-black hair,
And a face, ah! your face, - yours, Lisette,
A face it were wiser I should forget.
We were back – well, no matter when or where,
But you remember, I know, Lisette,
I saw you, dainty, and debonnaire,
With the very same look you used to wear
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Cities Of The Plain
'Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day!
Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away!
'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time,
And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime!'
The warning was spoken--the righteous had gone,
And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone;
All gay was the banquet--the revel was long,
With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song.
'T was an evening of beauty; the air was perfume,
The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom;
And softly the delicate viol was heard,
Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird.
And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance,
With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance
And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free
As the plumage of birds in some tropical tree.
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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To Mr. Granville, On His Excellent Tragedy, Called Heroic Love
Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and withering age submit,
With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long contended honours of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.
Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age
Can best, if any can, support the stage;
Which so declines, that shortly we may see
Players and plays reduced to second infancy:
Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the stage, but on the town,
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poem by John Dryden
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Pora, Pora, Pora
Pora, Pora Pora is word used to say'Go off'
'Go off 'shouted a father of brave son,
'Here lay my son' I need no polson,
dare not to step in my courtyard?
Go, stay away and keep many yard,
Many brave officers laid their lives,
Just to defend and save husbands of wives,
jumped to death, cared not for life,
saved precious monument when situation not rife,
Whole country is mourning death,
Paying homage and offering wreath,
He may be buried in simple manner,
But not allow any who is more sinner
'TaJmahal' may loose status of heritage,
loose its pride because of sacrilege,
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Calendar Night
This
Long hour
Of waiting
Is like that morn
When I drank thirteen
Cups of Arabica
I cling to this frail blanket
Frantically trying to abstain
From rays or forms of incandescence
I shut my mind off as if it’s a switch
But his convolutedness is Juggernaut
So once again I turn, churn, and curse in my bed
I now find myself groping for words to fill a month
I think this is how long it’ll take my darkness and I
To catch up like friends who drifted apart since graduation
Now I can hear three clocks simultaneously ticking in my ears
And the sound of the freezer is enough to turn my soda stone-cold
As thousands of little feet are hazing the ceiling into a playground
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poem by A.G. Bawang
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BÉranger's "broken fiddle"
I
There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend,
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow:
But feast to-day while yet you may,--
Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
II
"Give us a tune," the foemen cried,
In one of their profane caprices;
I bade them "No"--they frowned, and, lo!
They dashed this innocent in pieces!
III
This fiddle was the village pride--
The mirth of every fête enhancing;
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poem by Eugene Field
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Praise in Play
Though here we play as much as praise
on meaning's true intent, -
her friend to spend all nights and days
in palace or in tent.
Against all bets he lately met
a siren sweet as wise
beyond her years as any yet,
an angel in disguise.
Each cheek with morn's first flush competes, -
wild rose runs second best, -
her charm sweet modesty completes
unequalled all the rest.
Intelligence is not a word
to bandy much about,
however here 'twould be absurd
for both inside and out
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Bring Wine
216
Bring wine, for I am suffering crop sickness from the vintage;
God has seized me, and I am thus held fast.
By love’s soul, bring me a cup of wine that is the envy of the
sun, for I care aught but love.
Bring that which if I were to call it “soul” would be a shame,
for the reason that I am pained in the head because of the soul.
Bring that whose name is not contained in this mouth, through
which the fissures of my speech split asunder.
Bring that which, when it is not present, I am stupid and ig-
norant, but when I am with it, I am the king of the subtle and
crafty ones.
Bring that which, the moment it is void of my head, I become
black and dark, you might say I am of the infidels.
Bring that which delivers out of this “bring” and “do not
bring”; bring quickly, and repel me not, saying, “Whence shall
I bring it?”
Bring, and deliver the roof of the heavens through the long
night from my abundant smoke and lamentations.
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