Tag Archives: Wine

Sonnet I: Not Alone

Posted by David Emeron on

I sleep and then I dream and then I wake,
And live and work and play from sleep to sleep.
And sleep again and dream, and wake, and keep
My hand, to pen, and psalm, and song; and slake

This lust I feel when, weak or strong, I make
Them manifest; I sow, and press, and reap;
And joyously, my vintage test; I weep
And laugh as, for one day, I quell this ache;

And thrill to share each cup with those I love,
And even those I may; though not in hope
That I might ever sway, or help them cope;
But merely seek them out; and deem, above
All else, they might not doubt that there was one
Who felt as they, when sleep and dream was done.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Intro 6: Repletion

Posted by David Emeron on

Remember, thou shalt
forever be Mine Angel–
one superior

to all the grape is
able to be. And I shall
ever drink of thee,

sweetest, sweetest love;
and thenceforth I should never
again want for wine.

Intro 5: Mine

Posted by David Emeron on

But, hear me now, my
sweetest love, that thou shouldst know
with nary a doubt:

Once I shall have, to
thine arms, returnèd, thou shalt
forever be my

perfect wine, most sweet;
and thou shalt be the crystal
Wherewith I shall drink.

Sonnet III: Absence

Posted by David Emeron on

Remember thou, my sweetest love, that grape
Made manifest alloweth many forms:
A quick but fleeting ichorous escape;
A spirit with incalescence that warms.

The grape may yield up poison that would kill,
A draught that might embolden ones appeal,
A sedative to blight one of his skill,
Or potion, pray, infirmity, may heal.

Remember thou how fickle is the grape
So oft’ endowed, its yield, so commonplace;
But rarely, fine enough a thing to shape
Ones soul, aligned, unto a state of grace.

So may this sweet elixir slake thy soul;
And pray, my sweetest love, it make thee whole.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Intro 3: Medicine or Poison

Posted by David Emeron on

Remember thou, my
sweetest Love, that many forms
are yielded up by

the fickle grape: The
subjective grape might sometimes
yield up poison; but

it may also yield
up medicine that calmeth
and healeth thy Soul.