Classic Poem

Blue with the bloom of darkest grapes the night,
The fruited night hangs swollen, as some divine
New Deluge not of water but of wine
Might drown us not in death, but in delight:
And purple tropic torrents from the height
Madden the world's weeds from their flat design
And new shapes dance and nameless colours shine
Dizzying deep roots: the Dionysian light.

The heavens are sealed: and though we thrive we thirst
For that most holy Vine that holds the sky,
The clouds the seer called bottles, that do not burst,
Abide the breaking of that ancient cry:
I shall not drink again of the fruit of the vine
Till with dead men I drink a deathless wine.