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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Witter Bynner

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Mystic

Witter Bynner

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 wingèd 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.