The flower of the Vine is but a little thing, The least part of its life. You scarce could tell It ever had a flower. The fruit begins Almost before the flower has had its day. And as it grows, it is not free to heaven, But tied to a stake; and if its arms stretch out, It is but crosswise, also forced and bound; And so it draws out of the hard hillside, Fixed in its own place, its own food of Life; And quickens with it, breaking forth in bud, Joyous and green, and exquisite of form, Wreathed lightly into tendril, leaf, and bloom.
