A land of riotous harvest and of sweat

A land of riotous harvest and of sweat,
A land where men pull down the boughs to get
Plump clusters and then ravage them, a land
Where some coarse mystery breeds that must expand;
A festival as ominous as fate,
A holiday that will not satiate.
Such laughter as must leap up to a creed;
More clusters and more crushings and more speed,
Pressure of bubbling fruit on open lips.
Squashing and spirts and juicy finger-tips!
For this sun-smothered champaign were accurst.
Should Bacchus pass, with glazing eyes, athirst.