The Soul of Wine

"There can be no progress (real, that is, moral) except in the individual and by the individual himself".

Charles  Baudelaire

One night the wine was singing in the bottles:
"Mankind, dear waif, I send to you, in spite
Of prisoning glass and rosy wax that throttles,
A song that's full of brotherhood and light.

I know what toil, and pain, and sweat you thole,
Under the roasting sun on slopes of fire,
To give me life and to beget my soul
So I will not be thankless to my sire,

Because I feel a wondrous joy to dive
Down, clown the throat of some work-wearied slave.
His warm chest is a tomb wherein I thrive
Better than in my subterranean cave.

Say, can you hear that rousing catch resound
Which hope within my beating heart sings high?
(With elbows on the table, sprawl around,
Contented hearts! my name to glorify).

I'll light the eyes of your delighted wife.
Your son I'll give both rosy health and muscle
And be to that frail athlete of this life
Like oil that primes the wrestler for the tussle,

In you I fall, ambrosia from above,
Sown by the hand of the eternal Power,
That poetry may blossom from our love
And rear to God its rare and deathless flower"!