Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Le Père SegretMorris Bishop
From “With the A. E. F.”
H
From long upturning the earth his back was bent.
He told me how the wine was bad in the spring,
How the spring turned it moody and turbulent.
“The spring,” he said, “the spring runs into the soil,
And warms the vine, clipped to the very blood,
To bring forth buds with agony and toil.
Only a few great buds on a quaking vine;
And in the caves the old wines suffer too,
And sour and turbulent is the spring-time wine.”
Will you not tell me yet another thing?
What is the vine to which my hot blood yearns,
Bitter and turbulent, suffering with the spring?