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Some must be sober then to grow the vine,
And some to tread the press; others to sell
The fluid flame that lights the invisible,
And pours over fear a purple anodyne--
None who has known the charity of wine,
Its pity, the cool logic of its spell
Will waver in his loyalty, or dwell
In any heaven where the grape lacks a shrine.
Yet from the vineyard sounds the recurrent call--
How may we drink unless the workers till?
Those who love best the cup must come the first
To set the tendrils climbing up the wall--
There is no gate to escape the encircling Will
That consecrates me to the quenchless thirst!