Madden'd ev'ry vine-dark brook.


XV.

Had a red grape never burst,
All its heart of fire out;
To the red vat all a thirst,
To the treader's song and shout:


XVI.

Had the red grape died a grape;
Nor, sleek daughter of the vine,
Found her unknown soul take shape
In the wild flow of the wine:


XVII.

Still had reel'd the yellow haze:
Still had puls'd the sun pierc'd sod
Still had throbb'd the vine clad days:
To the pulses of their God.


XVIII.

Fierce the dry lips of the earth