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Neruda Wine Poem | Best Wine Poem

    Best Wine Poem
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    Best Wine Poem: Neruda explain the richness and passion of wine in his poem Ode to Wine. He presents wine as a lavish and glamorous lady. He describes the wine as night-colored or day color. I hope you liked this poem.

    Read also:- The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes | Poem in English

    Day-colored wine,
    night-colored wine,
    wine with purple feet
    or wine with topaz blood,
    wine,
    starry child
    of earth,
    wine, smooth
    as a golden sword,
    soft
    as lascivious velvet,
    wine, spiral-seashelled
    and full of wonder,
    amorous,
    marine;
    never has one goblet contained you,
    one song, one man,
    you are choral, gregarious,
    at the least, you must be shared.
    At times
    you feed on mortal
    memories;
    your wave carries us
    from tomb to tomb,
    stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
    and we weep
    transitory tears;
    your
    glorious
    spring dress
    is different,
    blood rises through the shoots,
    wind incites the day,
    nothing is left
    of your immutable soul.
    Wine
    stirs the spring, happiness
    bursts through the earth like a plant,
    walls crumble,
    and rocky cliffs,
    chasms close,
    as song is born.
    A jug of wine, and thou beside me
    in the wilderness,
    sang the ancient poet.
    Let the wine pitcher
    add to the kiss of love its own.

    My darling, suddenly
    the line of your hip
    becomes the brimming curve
    of the wine goblet,
    your breast is the grape cluster,
    your nipples are the grapes,
    the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
    and your navel is a chaste seal
    stamped on the vessel of your belly,
    your love an inexhaustible
    cascade of wine,
    light that illuminates my senses,
    the earthly splendor of life.

    But you are more than love,
    the fiery kiss,
    the heat of fire,
    more than the wine of life;
    you are
    the community of man,
    translucency,
    chorus of discipline,
    abundance of flowers.
    I like on the table,
    when we’re speaking,
    the light of a bottle
    of intelligent wine.
    Drink it,
    and remember in every
    drop of gold,
    in every topaz glass,
    in every purple ladle,
    that autumn labored
    to fill the vessel with wine;
    and in the ritual of his office,
    let the simple man remember
    to think of the soil and of his duty,
    to propagate the canticle of the wine.

    Written By: Pablo Neruda

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