| Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. |
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| 99. The Mystic |
| | | By Witter Bynner |
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| BY seven vineyards on one hill | |
| We walked. The native wine | |
| In clusters grew beside us two, | |
| For your lips and for mine, | |
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| When, “Hark!” you said,—”Was that a bell | 5 |
| Or a bubbling spring we heard?” | |
| But I was wise and closed my eyes | |
| And listened to a bird; | |
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| For as summer leaves are bent and shake | |
| With singers passing through, | 10 |
| So moves in me continually | |
| The wingèd breath of you. | |
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| You tasted from a single vine | |
| And took from that your fill— | |
| But I inclined to every kind, | 15 |
| All seven on one hill. | |
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