THOMAS STURGE MOORE
A stream sluiced for his vineyards; when, above,
The apples fell, they on to us were roll'd,
But kept us not awake, O Laco, own
How thou didst rave of love'
Now art thou staid, thy son is three years oldj
But I, who made thee love-songs, live alone.
��Muse thou at dawn o'er thy yet slumbering wife!
Not chary of her Best was Nature there,
Who, though a third of her full gift of life
Was spent, still added beauties still more rare,
What calm slow days, what holy sleep at night,
Evolved her for long twilight trystings fraught
With panic blushes and tip-toe surmise*
And then, what mystic might
All, with a crowning boon, through travail brought'
Consider this and give thy best likewise!
��Ungrateful be not' Laco, ne'er be that' Well worth thy while to make such wine 'twould be I see thy red face 'neath thy broad straw hat, I see thy house, thy vineyards, Sicily' Thou dost demur, good, but too easy, friend. Come put those doubts away' thou hast strong lads, Brave wenches, on the steep beach lolls thy ship, Where vine-clad slopes descend, Sheltering our bay, that headlong rillet glads, Like a stripped child fain in the sea to dip.
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