Two jugs upon a table stood;
One ample of girth and sweet of cavern,
But a shapeless bit of homely wood
That you would scorn in the poorest tavern;
The other traced and interlaced
By the strange fancy of a Dorian
Was sloped and curved to a woman's waist,
And worthy the pen of a grim historian.

Caneo came over a purple shoulder
Where the vineyards crawl in the lazy sun;
A bold man, Caneo; no bolder
Ever a woman won.
Bold was he as all men grow bold
Who wash themselves long in the sun.

And Caneo carried a cask of wine
Where the grapes had flowed together.
He saw the vase with the rich design
And paused whether—
(Ah, wonderful gate of whether)
A wisp of juice would it hold, and he
Had a cask of wine to pour.
So, he filled the jug of homely wood,
The ample of girth and sweet of cavern,
And the journeymen found the wine was good
As they pledged their luck at the nearest tavern.

I am Caneo;
And my skin is brown from the comrade sun.
And my heart is a cluster of grapes; each one
Ripe and ready to flow together
In the channel sweet of a purple song.
And I stand at the wonderful gates of “whether,”
Lusty and true and strong.
Whether the verse that the poets favored,
Wrought with Dorian taste and skill,
Or a basin of rock, by the sea flavored,
Shall be the cup I fill.

Here is the basin of rock, lean low,
Drink of me for the wine hath a tang
Not only of me but the sea.
And thy lips shall give it a tang of thee.
The years grow cold unto Poesy; haste,
O haste;
For the wine is strong as the drinker's taste.