ON these Nysæan shores divine The clusters ripen in a day. At dawn the blossom shreds away; The berried grapes are green and fine And full by noon; in day's decline They're purple with a bloom of grey, And e'er the twilight plucked are they, And crushed, by nightfall, into wine. But through the night with torch in hand Down the dusk hills the Mænads fare; The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare, The muffled timbrels swell and sound, And drown the clamour of the band Like thunder moaning underground. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU SAY YOU SAID by MARIANNE MOORE THE LITTLE VAGABOND, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW by ABRAHAM COWLEY THE WANDER-LOVERS by RICHARD HOVEY THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 1 by MARK AKENSIDE |