We walked along the terraced olive-yard, And talked together till we lost the way; We met a peasant, bent with age and hard, Bruising the grape-skins in a vase of clay; Bruising the grape-skins for the second wine, We did not drink, and left him, Love of mine; Bruising the grapes already bruised enough: He had his meagre wine, and we our love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON by GEOFFREY CHAUCER LAMENT FOR [THE DEATH OF] THOMAS DAVIS by SAMUEL FERGUSON OLD IRONSIDES by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES ANDRE by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES THE LITTLE OLD WOMEN by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE POUR FORTH THE WINE! by JOHN STUART BLACKIE THREE MINUS ONE (REFRAIN SUGGESTED BY DR. RICHARD HOFFMAN) by BERTON BRALEY |