"THE HARVEST I A harvest brings such joy, you see!/ Not a single rotten grape upon the cone./ And all the cones, firm, fixed, and black as can be./ Grapes from the trees, and like the vineyard's own./ But here the cicadas sing in August's heat,/ To lift your eyes! Here the vine takes hold and thrives!/ Bring forth the tub. It's full, complete./ If only I had wings!/ The wings of a swallow, light and free!/ My nest I'd build upon your pillow's springs./ - Look: the wasp desires the fairest, she./ - The bee makes honey, yet a single flower suffices,/ Clover bloom, or lupine's flowery decree./ - The summer's stridor has made the grapes so nice/ - What works for one, for others may not do./ - Now, she was counting down the hours, precise./ "Here are the baskets, women, true!"/ - O lovely brunette, so fair!/ When you were born, a bell in heaven rang anew,/ Alone it sounded, in the moon's soft glare./ - This one you'll lay upon the sunlit height:/ It's far too lovely for the vat to bear./ - But even that one is like garnet wine, so bright!/ - There were no rains, no frosts to cause despair./ - Bring drinks. The grape is pleased to feel/ Upon its face the breath of wine's sweet air./ - Press down the tub a bit./ - "I'm on my way,/ And what will you give me, for I must depart?"/ "A kiss upon your lips, to make you stay."/ - The paradisa has cones both long and light,/ And all the grapes are golden, and they hold/ The sun within, the sun that shines so bright./ - Rigo, from all of these, they will unfold/ Small cakes, so that, with your wife beside,/ You eat them at dawn, the first day of the year, bold./ The grape means goodness, beauty, far and wide./ And brings good fortune, Rigo./ - I feel, I know,/ Even the windows, when I pass and confide,/ They close themselves without a breath of wind's blow. II Thus you plucked the sweet grapes, at last, you see,/ With your neighbors near, for neighbors are/ Half kin, and with your women, all agree,/ O Rigo. The weather had been good from afar,/ And the harvest ripened, even in the shade;/ When you heard a thunder's distant scar./ You said: what's beautiful is beautiful, but won't pervade./ And you harvested. And it was a day so dry,/ You slipped upon the great, rough grade,/ A buzzing of wasps was everywhere, nearby,/ The grapes were warm, and in the tubs, once more,/ Gave off the scent of must, the flowing tide./ The people had arrived at dawn's first pour,/ When the dew or mist, inert and slow,/ Evaporates to heaven, and the skies adore./ Then up the steep the women start to go,/ Speaking softly, and they cut with care/ The cones with little, knowing nails, you know./ They cut them at the knot that's found to share/ The middle of the stem. The hens around/ Announced the laying, now and then, with flair./ But grew the varied chatter with the ground./ To cut the tendrils, climbing high above,/ A youth upon the poplar and the horn was crowned./ He sang then, when the women were removed,/ When in her basket, Violetta bore/ The wine and bread, by friendship's love approved./ She'd been at her sister's house a month or more,/ But was about to leave, to journey home,/ More pale, more beautiful than ever before./ "There's time:" Rigo to the gentle gossip's dome/ Said "back there is your vine, you see./ Then I will come: there's no sea foam."/ It was a pleasure to see, for all to be,/ The two sisters joined in work, as was their way!/ But those evenings, in October, mild and free,/ It also happened that they wept, astray. III They were that evening at the window's frame./ Some climbed with tubs, with fullness overflowing,/ Others descended with an empty basket's name./ They spoke in the long coming and the going,/ Loudly, for in them also spoke the wine./ "We want to finish, before supper's showing."/ "There's only the row nearby, in line./ There'll be two tubs or three; but just a bit,/ To hold them, the vat wants pressing, fine."/ The sky was already colored, all alight./ To the brimming vat the slender youth, with might,/ Leapt up, as if to test it, just for play./ He stood upon the edge a moment, fair and bright,/ Radiant with his beautiful tomorrow's sway,/ Arms outstretched, like a bird in flight./ Then he bent down, grasped with his hands that day/ The edge, and in, among the broken cones,/ He plunged his legs, and on the crushing grains, astray./ The red must rose, foaming, in its tones,/ Above his hocks; and he turned around and round,/ Pressing with his heels and with his bones./ And the red sun illuminated the blond/ Harvester; and lo, from a remote/ Corner of the sky, a tinkling, joyful sound./ One, from the sky, accompanied the mote/ Of his feet, upon those rosy flakes,/ Beating in fury on a hollow bronze, remote.../ The other moved his knees with rapid takes/ Upon the red must, also moved his head/ Well in cadence, the sun between his wakes./ But it was a sound of festive bells instead./ And he was pressing; when, all of a sudden,/ Rosa up there, Rosa, already mute and dread,/ Rose up, wet with tears, her face unbidden,/ With a sob, and Violetta, bent and low,/ To look out, immersed in a smile, unhidden,/ Turned white, and murmured: Rosina, oh!
(from New Little Poems)"
Created by d'Araprì