New Wine

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.