The Mystic

Witter Bynner

By seven vineyards on one hill
 We walked.  The native wine
In clusters grew beside us two,
 For your lips and for mine,
When, "Hark!" you said, — "Was that a bell
 Or a bubbling spring we heard?"
But I was wise and closed my eyes
 And listened to a bird;
For as summer leaves are bent and shake
 With singers passing through,
So moves in me continually
 The wingèd breath of you.
You tasted from a single vine
 And took from that your fill —
But I inclined to every kind,
 All seven on one hill.


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