To a Bunch of Grapes

RIPENING IN MY WINDOW.

Cluster of pregnant berries, pressed
     In luscious warmth together,
Like golden eggs in glassy nest,
Hatched by the zephyr’s dewy breast
     In sultry weather;
Or amber tears of those sad girls
     Who mourn their hapless brother;
Strung closely on the glossy curls
Of yon fair shrub, whose zigzag twirls
     Clip one another;
Or silent swarm of golden bees
     Your velvet bosoms brushing,
Dropped odorous from the gummy breeze,
Lingering in sleep upon the trees,
     Whilst summer’s blushing;
Or liquid sunbeams, swathed in net
     Spun by some vagrant fairy,
Like mimic lamps fresh trimmed and set
In thick festoons, with ripeness wet,
     Moonlight to carry;
Or drops of honey, lately stolen
     From the hive’s treasury,
Bubbles of light, with sweetness swollen,
Balls of bright juice, by breezes rollen,
     And bandied high.
I watch with wondrous care each day
     Your little spotted blushes,
Dyed by the sun’s rude staring ray;
And soon I hope you’ll ooze away
     In sunny gushes.
Then shall ye, veiled in misty fume,
     In polished urn be flowing;
With blood of nectar, soul perfume,
Breathe on our cheeks a downy bloom
     With pleasure glowing.

[Gosse, 1890]