I trod the grapes at midnight
And, oh, it made a potent wine.
Yet more bitter than any cask
Drawn in more auspicious times.
I scorned to pluck the fruit
Warm on the midday vine.
I let it hang ‘til nightfall
When dew was heavy on the rind.
I washed it in a fountain
Fed by an icy spring
And spread it on the grass
To dry in the Stygian breeze.
I trampled it in darkness
And though the mash was sweet
The juice’s inky hue left
Purple stains upon my feet.
It fermented through the Autumn
Buried in fallen leaves.
I corked it when the moon was new
On a Cimmerian winter’s eve.
Drink sparingly of this vintage
Pressed in the absence of light.
Use it only for libations
Paid in the dead of night.
