The Wine Press

Whither, we ask,
Shall progress plant our feet?

Those who would tread
The wine press for the world
Must first have labored
In the harvest hills.

Go, dig the vineyard
In the darkling days.
Tend the young shoots
Of early April green.
Prune the rank growth,
And curb the wanton spray.
Wait on the rain,
And Soul's sweet summering.

Then, ere a fall leaf
Flutter to the ground,
Gather the fruit
When yet in velvet bloom.

Then shall the vats
Be filled with ruby wine,
And inspiration
Measureless outpour.

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