Quotes about vintage, page 9
Love Sonnet 144 With All The Wickedness Roaming The Earth
With all the wickedness, roaming the earth,
To fill the good spots, it's a waste of Hell,
Evil of all vintage, the good's in dearth,
Paradise despoiled, soundly, it then fell.
I might, my soul, enclose in bins so tight,
With cherubim to guard, on lock and key,
Until salvation comes, and all's in light,
When hearts of men, are neither black nor gray.
But you, my dear, I've got to see outside,
For love that's always pure and truly grand,
Beware of serpents that the tree would hide,
Refuse all apples which may fill your hand:
.......Love will often seek what it hopes to find,
......And find in hope, what it has sought, when blind.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Day and Night
DAY goeth bold in cloth of gold,
A royal bridegroom he;
But Night in jewelled purple walks—
A Queen of Mystery.
Day filleth up his loving-cup
With vintage golden-clear;
But Night her ebon chalice crowns
With wine as pale as Fear.
Day drinks to Life, to ruddy Life,
And holds a kingly feast.
Night drinks to Death; and while she drinks—
Day rises in the East!
They may not meet; they may not greet;
Each keeps a separate way:
Day knoweth not the stars of Night,
Nor Night the Star of Day.
So runs the reign of Other Twain.
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poem by Victor James Daley
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C` i` r` r` h` o` s` i` s`
The vintage Jeraboam was like ether, an aural fantacide;
Mercurial Mind......irascible to the drumming of its walls;
Time escapes 'tween the threads of numbness and coma;
The Human Liver...labours deep, be it sotted...be it sober,
Yet only by the finest line that crosses Breath with Death.
Ostensibly brain-froze, still your nerves sense the needles;
Elixur potentate....might as well be injected with profofol;
The events, the illusion....that mirage in your Dreamscape-
All pass, as the movement of the Rapid Eye draws closure,
For the Mind not be born to sustain abuse so great as this.
And you awake to find your flesh a deepest shade of ochre.
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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The Two Goblets
Bearing two crystal goblets in her hands
To a philosopher an Angel came:
One wine shone clear as water o’er white sands,
One red as flame.
“Choose!” said the Angel. “From life’s wine-press flows
For all mankind the vintage which I bring.
The pale cup holds exemption from life’s woes,
The red brings suffering.”
“One wine is colourless,” the dreamer said.
“Who suffer keenest nobler joys attain.”
And to the dregs drained from the goblet red
The draught of pain.
Then spake the Angel: “Thou hast chosen well.
What seemeth loss to thee shall prove thy gain.
All that is pure, and sweet, and beautiful
Is born of pain.”
poem by George Essex Evans
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The Sun Cup
The earth is the cup of the sun,
That he filleth at morning with wine,
With the warm, strong wine of his might
From the vintage of gold and of light,
Fills it, and makes it divine.
And at night when his journey is done,
At the gate of his radiant hall,
He setteth his lips to the brim,
With a long last look of his eye,
And lifts it and draineth it dry,
Drains till he leaveth it all
Empty and hollow and dim.
And then, as he passes to sleep,
Still full of the feats that he did,
Long ago in Olympian wars,
He closes it down with the sweep
Of its slow-turning luminous lid,
Its cover of darkness and stars,
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poem by Archibald Lampman
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Rotgut
The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor
the moon by night. Psalm 121
On a hillside scattered with temples broken
under the dogday sun, my friend and I drank
local wine at nightfall and ate grapeleaves
in goat-yogurt glaze. The living grape vines
bore fruit overhead. Beyond our balcony,
beyond the Turkish rooftops, an old moon
touched Venus at one tip. This vintage,
he said, would melt pig iron. But I wondered,
were we drunk enough, and he said no. I took him,
staggering and laughing, in my arms, and soon,
with snow at nightfall easing off,
another old moon slid into the hill
behind my dead friend’s house. He loved
that smear of light cast back on it from earth.
poem by Brooks Haxton
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The Old Man
He sits quietly murmuring
Talking only to himself
His eyes sunken and dark
A look of tiredness across his face
His head is slightly bowed
Resting upon his hand
He sits alone in almost darkness
Except for a small table lamp
In the far corner of the room
There is little in the way of light
Old books gather dust
In piles around upon the floor
Those stories he once read
The worlds to which he escaped
Now stacked without order
Like memories becoming forgot
A glass of vintage wine
Held in his thin, bone like fingers
Softens his pallet, soothes his throat
While he sits alone each night
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Blame Me This Time
This time, to save time
I'm just going to fall in love
With myself: discrete lunches
Alone at the table, with an engrossing book
Candlelight dinners and vintage wine,
Looking up at the stars,
Trying to name all the constellations-
Just me and only me;
Slow dancing in the garden
To a symphony of cicadas
Heart-shaped chocolate boxes,
With a romantic poem tucked under the ribbon
Surprising myself with flowers
And fresh-squeezed orange juice
After an all nighter
Of watching movies by myself
Secret notes slipped into my bag
To meet myself at an undisclosed place
For a romantic interlude:
I can see it's going to get complicated
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poem by Patti Masterman
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Fire of Stone
limit my day of stay; I am not a stone but
a fire that close and kindle the cooled Heart
in your beautiful dream; the road comes to
dark without the light, dear someone …
long did I wish for your presence, as far
as the distance of the ocean, I travel up and
high in the blue sky I fly, just to be with
your side, dear heart …
lend me your moment, and guide my
ways to reach you, wherever pain I rejoice
for nothing will soften my heart, than to
love you deep in my soul, my dear hope my
hope …
I come to float far beyond the wrapped
in your vintage arm, and follows the breath
with you dear goodbye; that day will be the
forever you, my dear love …
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poem by Antonio Liao
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In The Harbour: The Wine Of Jurançon. (From The French Of Charles Coran)
Little sweet wine of Jurançon,
You are dear to my memory still!
With mine host and his merry song,
Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.
Twenty years after, passing that way,
Under the trellis I found again
Mine host, still sitting there au frais,
And singing still the same refrain.
The Jurançon, so fresh and bold,
Treats me as one it used to know;
Souvenirs of the days of old
Already from the bottle flow,
With glass in hand our glances met;
We pledge, we drink. How sour it is
Never Argenteuil piquette
Was to my palate sour as this!
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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