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.