The Mystic
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Witter Bynner
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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.
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