MYRIADS of purple grapes,

Rain falling, the ancientness of trees

— Giant boles with bushy branches crowned.

How soon the sad soil gapes ;

And of wine but bitter lees

Remain—and of the boles, dun peaty ground.

But somewhere nectar flows

Of the unmixed joy ; immortal springs

The Shadow less River by the fadeless groves.

There, life's rhythm goes

On feet untiring ; fearless wings

Speed unveering to their haven loves.