wine

Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.

A wife says to her husband (or vice versa), "Do you love me?" "Of course," he replies. "I've been married to you for twenty years, haven't I?" How satisfied would we be if we presented someone with a vintage wine and, asking his opinion of it, he replied, "I'm drinking it, aren't I?" Love still needs expression between those who share it.

'THIS ROOM HAS MYSTERY LIKE A TRANCE' This room has mystery like a trance Of wine ; forget-me-nots of you Are chair and couch, the books your Fingers touched. And now that you Are absent here the silence scrapes A secret rust from everything; While sudden wreaths of sorrow's Dust uncover emptiness like halls To stumble through, and terror falls

The thirst of soul is sweeter than the wine of material things, and the fear of spirit is dearer than the security of the body.

Poetry, my dear friends, is a sacred incarnation of a smile. Poetry is a sigh that dries the tears. Poetry is a spirit who dwells in the soul, whose nourishment is the heart, whose wine is affection. Poetry that comes not in this form is a false messiah.

The Jews, my beloved, awaited the coming of a Messiah, who had been promised them, and who was to deliver them from bondage. And the Great Soul of the World sensed that the worship of Jupiter and Minerva no longer availed, for the thirsty hearts of men could not be quenched with that wine. In Rome men pondered the divinity of Apollo, a god without pity, and beauty of Venus already fallen into decay. For deep in their hearts, though they did not understand it, these nations hungered and thirsted for the supreme teaching that would transcend any to be found on the earth. They yearned for the spirit's freedom that would teach man to rejoice with his neighbor at the light of the sun and the wonder of living. For it is this cherished freedom that brings man close to the Unseen, which he can approach without fear or shame.

Chip the glasses and crack the plates! Blunt the knives and bend the forks! That's what Bilbo hates - Smash the bottles and burn the corks! Cut the cloth and tread on the fat! Pour the milk on the pantry floor! Leave the bones on the bedroom mat! Splash the wine on every door! Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl; Pound them up with a thumping pole; And when you've finished, if any are whole, Send them down the hall to roll! That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! So, carefully! carefully! with the plates!

The green earth sends her incense up. From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewey cup She pours her sacred wine.

When night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.