Treading the Press

From the trellis hang the grapes
Purple-deep;
Maidens with white, curving napes
And coiled hair backward leap.
As they catch the fruit, mid laughter.
Cut from every silvan rafter.

Baskets, over-filled with fruit.
From their heads
Down into the press they shoot
A white-clad peasant treads,
Firmly crimson circles smashing
Into must with his feet's thrashing.

Wild and rich the oozings pour
From the press;
Leaner grows the tangled store
Of vintage, ever less:
Wine that kindles and entrances
Thus is made by one who dances.