Free The Bird-Catcher by Martin Armstrong Page A

pausing when
    Among the vines thick-leaved and deeply-rooted
    They chance upon those bunches heaviest-fruited
    And fullest-ripened: these alone they gather
    And softly in the baskets lay; and then
    Convey them to a sunny spot, made ready
    With little mats of woven grass; for here
    They must be laid awhile beneath the steady
    Streams of the sunshine. But when night draws near,
    With other mats they shield them, nor uncover
    Till all the dark and dewy hours are over:
    So for three days, till the juice turns sweet and heady
    From four and twenty hours of sun and air.
    Now to the winepress. Now the mounded treasure
    Load upon load into the trough is tossed,
    But never heaped above the proper measure
    Lest something of the scented juice be lost
    When, stripped to the thighs, the peasants take their station
    And tread the grape to rich annihilation,
    While all the rest stand round and laugh with pleasure
    To see the foam seethe up as keen as frost.
    But when above that pool of bubbling juices
    Not one whole cluster shows, with wine-stained legs
    Then men step forth, and some unstop the sluices
    And catch the gurgling must in wooden kegs
    Which soon, close-packed, the rocking mule-cart beareth
    Two dusty miles away to white-walled Jerez
    Where the great vats, set for their ancient uses,
    Sweetened and scoured of former lees and dregs,
    Wait in the dark bodega. There unloaded,
    The kegs are heaved and emptied one by one
    Into the portly vats. So having stowed it
    They leave the must to work. Now has begun
    That early fermentation musky-scented
    And softly-hissing, called “the tumultuous,” ended
    After a few brief days, which but foreboded
    That slower, stealthier change whose stages run
    Beyond Christ’s Birthday to the old year’s ending
    And on into the New Year till the first
    Or second month, while the slow dregs descending
    Leave the wine clear, all cloudy films dispersed.
    Thereafter, from its lees drawn off, enduring
    Through the long months it waits the slow maturing
    Laid up in other vats, till ripe for blending
    With older wine, in whose soft flame immersed,
    It grows to subtler essence. And that older
    Is mixed with older yet, from every vat
    A little drawn, till Time, the patient moulder
    Of pure perfection, who on Ararat
    Watered the vine of Noah, slowly fashion
    The pure Solera, daughter of the passion
    Of Earth and Sun, and make the gold one golder,
    The ripe one riper than that old king who sat
    On Israel’s ivory throne, and every nation
    Drew near to taste his wisdom. For in wine
    Lie wisdom and that fair illumination
    That charms the brain to fancies half divine.
    Then drink! For, kindling in our crystal rummers,
    Wakes the bright Phœnix of a thousand summers
    And the great gods stand again, each in his station,
    With garlands crowned of the immortal vine.

Summer in Winter
    Winter lies on the fields so cold and grey
    That morning and noon are dim as the fall of day.
    Colour is gone from the world, and the rustle of leaves,
    And the song of the birds; but under the loaded eaves
    Icicles drip and drip to the ground below,
    Melting a line of holes in the floor of snow.
    Shut out this desolation. Here indoors
    Are bright, warm rooms. The fire of pine-logs roars:
    In polished brass and blushing mirror flares
    The hearth’s red gleam. Long sofas, deep soft chairs,
    And books are here. Let snow mount to the sill,
    Here we have made a summer no frost can kill.
    And here, conserved in jars, is the wealth of June,—
    Raspberry, strawberry, waiting the silver spoon;
    Jelly of autumn brambles, gleaming pots
    Of plums, greengages, tawny apricots
    Steeped in clear syrups, and the crystal spoil
    Of bees, the vintage of a five-months’ toil.
    But, more than this, in cellared gloom are laid
    Other and older vintages that swayed
    In purple clusters on Burgundian plains,
    On Lusitanian mountain-slopes or Spain’s
    Swart vineyards, in whose generous nectar runs
    The prisoned soul of