Poems with rhymes of vine

Through the rich loam, or while the slant sunshine
Carress’d them, to remark the melons, how
They lumped from out their vine.

While runs the Rhine—
He and I—revel—
First—at the vat—and latest at the Vine—

Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;

Crowned with clusters of the vine,
Let us sit, and quaff our wine.

Uplift and sway, O golden vine,
Your clustered fruits to love's full flood,
Lambent and vast and ruthless as is thine

Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Or mark the northmost border line
Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine.

O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine,
While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shine

And on the porch the slender vine
Held out its cups of fairy wine.

Big Tom Sargent was the first in line;
He could fiddle all the bugs off a sweet-potato vine.

Christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine,
Christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine,

I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,

Twining inextricably, as twine
The clasping tangles of the vine;

For thou hast left her shrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,

A lifetime long, and loved each untrimmed vine:
The rotted harps, the swords of rusted gold,
The jungles of all Heaven then were mine.

I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine.
Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet,
This wild new growth of the corn and vine,

'Wisely our Prophet cursed the vine
The fiend that loves the breath of wine,

He's my supporting elm, and I his vine:
Thus I my Best-Beloved's am, thus he is mine.

So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

From storms a shelter, give the drooping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwine,