We Are Pulling Up the Vines to-Day
ACROSS the gravelly hillside five yokes of yellow oxen drag five chains.
I sent them forth at daylight to pull up the deep-rooted vineyard.
To-day and to-morrow, and every day through the winter,
They will pace up and down the ordered channels,
With heavy breath and gritting iron, hauling out the damp tap-roots.
I sent them forth at daylight to pull up the deep-rooted vineyard.
To-day and to-morrow, and every day through the winter,
They will pace up and down the ordered channels,
With heavy breath and gritting iron, hauling out the damp tap-roots.
The oxen are old beasts and their drivers are old men;
But winter and summer, the full lifetime of them both,
Beasts and men have labored among those vines;
Nourishing the young plants, and ploughing underground the grass and weeds;
Carting away the close-clipped wood in April, and the purple fruit in fall.
But winter and summer, the full lifetime of them both,
Beasts and men have labored among those vines;
Nourishing the young plants, and ploughing underground the grass and weeds;
Carting away the close-clipped wood in April, and the purple fruit in fall.
To-day they are pulling up the vines
Which the lifetime of their labor has brought to its heyday of fruition.
And when the last root is laid upon the pile for burning,
We shall send the yellow oxen to the slaughter-house,
And in the evening light the gray old men will sit before their tenant cottages,
Wondering if they are too old to learn another trade.
Which the lifetime of their labor has brought to its heyday of fruition.
And when the last root is laid upon the pile for burning,
We shall send the yellow oxen to the slaughter-house,
And in the evening light the gray old men will sit before their tenant cottages,
Wondering if they are too old to learn another trade.
Before Jesus was born, the Romans marched along the road
That fronts my dwelling. And on our hillside they found grapevines
That made the region famous for its red liquor.
They carried with them plants to improve the vine of Italy,
And peasant prisoners to make the drink for emperors.
That fronts my dwelling. And on our hillside they found grapevines
That made the region famous for its red liquor.
They carried with them plants to improve the vine of Italy,
And peasant prisoners to make the drink for emperors.
Has pope or prince lived in Europe for two thousand years,
Or general, or woman who dominated great men,
Who has not loved the ruby elegance of our wine?
Is there a country, north, south, east, or west, where the ships sail,
And men have risen enough above the sod to live at ease,
Where the pressed blood of our hillside has not been bartered?
Or general, or woman who dominated great men,
Who has not loved the ruby elegance of our wine?
Is there a country, north, south, east, or west, where the ships sail,
And men have risen enough above the sod to live at ease,
Where the pressed blood of our hillside has not been bartered?
Is there a country, north, south, east, or west,
Where, at the wedding festival, the eye of beauty has not become more limpid;
Where, at pageants of military triumph,
The pulse of valor has not beat stronger;
Where, at reunions of comrades, the heart
Has not melted into a sympathy more poignant;
Where the cold limbs of age have not felt the enkindling heat of youth;
Where threatenings of revenge have not been tempered
Into a gentler comprehension,
When the red wine of our vineyards has flowed
Into the cup, the brain, the soul?
This morning I sent out five yoke of oxen to pull up the vines.
Where, at the wedding festival, the eye of beauty has not become more limpid;
Where, at pageants of military triumph,
The pulse of valor has not beat stronger;
Where, at reunions of comrades, the heart
Has not melted into a sympathy more poignant;
Where the cold limbs of age have not felt the enkindling heat of youth;
Where threatenings of revenge have not been tempered
Into a gentler comprehension,
When the red wine of our vineyards has flowed
Into the cup, the brain, the soul?
This morning I sent out five yoke of oxen to pull up the vines.
Father to son, father to son, sixty generations of husbandmen
Have guarded the precious lore of the culture.
About the fireplaces at night, when the boy listened to the grandfather,
Walking forth at dawn when the sun touched the dew on the green tendrils,
There was the slow speech of equals of their common task.
Have guarded the precious lore of the culture.
About the fireplaces at night, when the boy listened to the grandfather,
Walking forth at dawn when the sun touched the dew on the green tendrils,
There was the slow speech of equals of their common task.
Among the women at the washing-pools;
Among the carters in the clover-smelling, dim stone barns;
Among proprietors and merchants when their horses came
Nose-to-nose upon the sandy roads;
Between lovers about to marry;
Between wet-nosed little boys loitering to school,
Time out of mind, the talk of our country has been of the vines.
Among the carters in the clover-smelling, dim stone barns;
Among proprietors and merchants when their horses came
Nose-to-nose upon the sandy roads;
Between lovers about to marry;
Between wet-nosed little boys loitering to school,
Time out of mind, the talk of our country has been of the vines.
Of the grafting and the setting of the vine;
Of the pruning and the feeding of the vine;
Of the procession of the priest to bless the bloom of the vine;
Of the war upon the pests that-eat the foliage of the vine;
Of the minute fungi that absorb the juice of the vine;
Of the brown, bare vine of autumn, shivering in the frost;
Of the timorous green vine of early April;
Of its masquerade in copperas blue and pallid chalk-dust;
Of the lordly splendor of the golden vintage;
The vine, the vine, ever the vine, fills song and work and play of our country.
Of the pruning and the feeding of the vine;
Of the procession of the priest to bless the bloom of the vine;
Of the war upon the pests that-eat the foliage of the vine;
Of the minute fungi that absorb the juice of the vine;
Of the brown, bare vine of autumn, shivering in the frost;
Of the timorous green vine of early April;
Of its masquerade in copperas blue and pallid chalk-dust;
Of the lordly splendor of the golden vintage;
The vine, the vine, ever the vine, fills song and work and play of our country.
It is a country where the care of the vineyard has become man’s instinct.
Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, the babies in their baskets,
The old men on their canes, the dogs and family pets,
As family units, leave the cottages in the morning
For labor in the vines till nightfall.
Year follows year, and only for the truce of Sabbath,
The family spends its lifetime in the vineyard.
Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, the babies in their baskets,
The old men on their canes, the dogs and family pets,
As family units, leave the cottages in the morning
For labor in the vines till nightfall.
Year follows year, and only for the truce of Sabbath,
The family spends its lifetime in the vineyard.
And oh, the gayety of the grape-harvest!
The singing of the girls in the leafy tunnels;
The singing of the thick-set women in their scarlet working-breeches;
The mellow chant of the porters as they pass among the pickers,
‘Throw in your grapes, Throw in your grapes’;
The creaking of the high-wheeled, loaded carts;
The perfumed mist that hangs above the cellar,
Where barefoot men tread up and up the mound of purple fruit;
The tables for the evening food, smoking with meat;
The candlelight on swarthy faces.
To-day we are pulling up the vines.
The singing of the girls in the leafy tunnels;
The singing of the thick-set women in their scarlet working-breeches;
The mellow chant of the porters as they pass among the pickers,
‘Throw in your grapes, Throw in your grapes’;
The creaking of the high-wheeled, loaded carts;
The perfumed mist that hangs above the cellar,
Where barefoot men tread up and up the mound of purple fruit;
The tables for the evening food, smoking with meat;
The candlelight on swarthy faces.
To-day we are pulling up the vines.
Along the roadway of the slow, strong river,
Vessel after vessel, sail and steam, for centuries have plied,
Bearing away the bellying tuns, the rolling barrels of the wine,
Whose tides flowed back to France in coined gold.
Vessel after vessel, sail and steam, for centuries have plied,
Bearing away the bellying tuns, the rolling barrels of the wine,
Whose tides flowed back to France in coined gold.
We are pulling up the vines.
The cellars are replete with wine no land desires.
The Slav is drunken with his rage;
Others who bought are now our foes and buy no more;
Across the sea, the virtue of new lands repels our merchandise.
A thousand years the vines have flourished on these slopes;
To-day we drag them from their beds, to burn.
The cellars are replete with wine no land desires.
The Slav is drunken with his rage;
Others who bought are now our foes and buy no more;
Across the sea, the virtue of new lands repels our merchandise.
A thousand years the vines have flourished on these slopes;
To-day we drag them from their beds, to burn.
And man’s lifetime — how large is it? How ample, or how wise?
I am pulling up the vines to-day — who knows but He, who made both vine and man,
Smiles on His distant seat,
Foreseeing that my son will turn the earth on me,
And plant again the vines,
And up will push the forest of victorious green, enveloping our hill.
I am pulling up the vines to-day — who knows but He, who made both vine and man,
Smiles on His distant seat,
Foreseeing that my son will turn the earth on me,
And plant again the vines,
And up will push the forest of victorious green, enveloping our hill.