The Mystic

By Witter Bynner

1881-1968


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 winged 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.

DayPoems Poem No. 1217
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1217.html">The Mystic by Witter Bynner</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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