In Tuscany, the vintage season reigns. From trailing vines festooning maple trees The grapes are cut; and everywhere one sees The great white oxen draw the loaded wains Up to the vats where, splashed with crimson stains, The peasants -- men and maids -- bare to the knees, Treading the clusters, sing and sway at ease, Till nought but blood-red must and pulp remains. Rich-colored parable of the plan divine! Throughout all Nature life and death are fused. The grape must needs be crushed before new wine Gives forth its life. So man's dark heart is bruised, Before the true immortal wine wells up, A fount of strength to brim earth's loving-cup. |