Читать книгу The Ring of Amethyst - Alice Wellington Rollins - Страница 9

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I taste the cup of sacred wine,

Nor count with you the cost too great

For those who steadfastly can wait;

Though grapes of fragrance so divine

Should ripen to their vintage late.

Gathered when only richest suns

Pour down a wealth of golden fire;

Pressed while the holy heart’s desire

Breathes grateful for these perfect ones,

And solemn prayer floats high and higher;—

Type of a love that lets no stain

Of doubt or dullness mar its creed;

But patient through its own great need

Of loving, wins its sure domain,—

Such love, such wine, is pure indeed.

Yet as I turn to pour for you,—

Vivid and sparkling at your gaze,—

My own heart’s vintage,—let me praise

This glowing wine as holy, too;

Since love may come in many ways.

And mine came to me as a star

Shines suddenly from worlds apart;

And suddenly my lifted heart

Caught the rare brightness from afar

And mirrored its swift counterpart.

Love born of instant trust and need,

Each heart of each; a love that knew

No test of time to prove it true,

No fostering care; without a seed

It seemed as if the flower grew!

And you whose tender love was nursed

In strong sweet patience, till the wine

Of joy became for you divine,

Ripened in sunlight from the first,—

Will not refuse to this of mine

A sacredness; remembering,—

By miracle changed instantly,—

The holy wine of Galilee;—

Even so the wine of joy I bring

For you to taste, was changed for me!