|The Rhyme Maker
Evans (1884-1921), American poet
must be sober then to grow the vine,
some to tread the press; others to sell
fluid flame that lights the invisible,
pours over fear a purple anodyne –
who has known the charity of wine,
pity, the cool logic of its spell
waver in his loyalty, or dwell
any heaven where the grape lacks a shrine.
from the vineyard sounds the recurrent call –
may we drink unless the workers till?
who love best the cup must come the first
set the tendrils climbing up the wall –
is no gate to escape the encircling Will
consecrates me to the quenchless thirst!