Pacchiarotto - Epilogue Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


The poets pour us wineA
Said the dearest poet I ever knewB
Dearest and greatest and best to meC
You clamor athirst for poetryC
We pour But when shall a vintage beC
You cry strong grape squeezed gold from screwB
Yet sweet juice flavored flowery fineA
That were indeed the wineA
One pours your cup stark strengthD
Meat for a man and you eye the pulpE
Strained turbid still from the viscous bloodF
Of the snaky bough and you grumble GoodG
For it swells resolve breeds hardihoodG
Dispatch it then in a single gulpE
So down with a wry face goes at lengthD
The liquor stuff for strengthD
One pours your cup sheer sweetG
The fragrant fumes of a year condensedG
Suspicion of all that's ripe or ratheH
From the bud on branch to the grass in swatheI
We suck mere milk of the seasons saithI
A curl of each nostril dew dispensedG
Nowise for nerving man to featG
Boys sip such honeyed sweetG
And thus who wants wine strongJ
Waves each sweet smell of the year awayK
Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuseL
His brain with a mixture of beams and dewsL
Turned syrupy drink rough strength eschewsL
What though in our veins your wine stock stayK
The lack of the bloom does our palate wrongJ
Give us wine sweet not strongJ
Yet wine is some affirmM
Prime wine is found in the world somewhereN
Of portable strength with sweet to matchO
You double your heart its dose yet catchO
As the draught descends a violet swatchP
Softness however it came thereN
Through drops expressed by the fire and wormM
Strong sweet wine some affirmM
Body and bouquet bothI
'Tis easy to ticket a bottle soQ
But what was the case in the cask my friendsR
Cask Nay the vat where the maker mendsR
His strong with his sweet you suppose and blendsR
His rough with his smooth till none can knowQ
How it comes you may tipple nothing lothI
Body and bouquet bothI
You being just the worldG
No poets who turn themselves the winchS
Of the press no critics I'll even sayR
Being flustered and easy of faith to dayR
Who for love of the work have learned the wayR
Till themselves produce home made at a pinchS
No You are the world and wine ne'er purledR
Except to please the worldR
For oh the common heartR
And ah the irremissible sinT
Of poets who please themselves not usR
Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thusR
How please still Pindar and schylusR
Drink dipt into by the bearded chinT
Alike and the bloomy lip no partR
Denied the common heartR
And might we get such graceR
And did you moderns but stock our vaultR
With the true half brandy half attar gulU
How would seniors indulge at a hearty pullV
While juniors tossed off their thimblefulV
Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your faultR
So they reign supreme o'er the weaker raceR
That wants the ancient graceR
If I paid myself with wordsR
As the French say well I were dupe indeedR
I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsedR
At your Shakespeare the whole day long carousedR
In your Milton pottle deep nor drowsedR
A moment of night toped on took heedR
Of nothing like modern cream and curdsR
Pay me with deeds not wordsR
For see your cellarageW
There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brandR
Some five or six are abroach the restR
Stand spigoted fauceted Try and testR
What yourselves call best of the very bestR
How comes it that still untouched they standR
Why don't you try tap advance a stageW
With the rest in cellarageW
For see your cellarageW
There are four big butts of Milton's brewB
How comes it you make old drips and dropsR
Do duty and there devotion stopsR
Leave such an abyss of malt and hopsR
Embellied in butts which bungs still glueB
You hate your bard A fig for your rageW
Free him from cellarageW
'Tis said I brew stiff drinkX
But the deuce a flavor of grape is thereN
Hardly a May go down 'tis justR
A sort of a gruff Go down it mustR
No Merry go down no gracious gustR
Commingles the racy with Springtide's rareN
What wonder say you that we cough and blinkX
At Autumn's heady drinkX
Is it a fancy friendsR
Mighty and mellow are never mixedR
Though mighty and mellow be born at onceR
Sweet for the future strong for the nonceR
Stuff you should stow away ensconceR
In the deep and dark to be found fast fixedR
At the century's close such time strength spendsR
A sweetening for my friendsR
And then why what you quaffY
With a smack of lip and a cluck of tongueZ
Is leakage and leavings just what hapsR
From the tun some learned taster tapsR
With a promise Prepare your watery chapsR
Here's properest wine for old and youngZ
Dispute its perfection you make us laughY
Have faith give thanks but quaffY
Leakage I say or worseR
Leavings suffice pot valiant soulsR
Somebody brimful long agoQ
Frothed flagon he drained to the dregs and loQ
Down whisker and beard what an overflowQ
Lick spilth that has trickled from classic jowlsR
Sup the single scene sip the only verseR
Old wine not new and worseR
I grant you worse by muchA2
Renounce that new where you never gainedR
One glow at heart one gleam at headR
And stick to the warrant of age insteadR
No dwarf's lap Fatten by giants fedR
You fatten with oceans of drink undrainedR
You feed who would choke did a cobweb smutchA2
The Age you love so muchA2
A mine's beneath a moorB2
Acres of moor roof fathoms of mineA
Which diamonds dot where you please to digC2
Yet who plies spade for the bright and bigC2
Your product is truffles you hunt with a pigC2
Since bright and big when a man would dineA
Suits badly and therefore the Koh i noorB2
May sleep in mine 'neath moorB2
Wine pulse in might from meC
It may never emerge in must from vatR
Never fill cask nor furnish canD2
Never end sweet which strong beganD2
God's gift to gladden the heart of manD2
But spirit's at proof I promise thatR
No sparing of juice spoils what should beC
Fit brewage mine for meC
Man's thoughts and loves and hatesR
Earth is my vineyard these grew thereB2
From grape of the ground I made or marredR
My vintage easy the task or hardR
Who set it his praise be my rewardR
Earth's yield Who yearn for the Dark Blue Sea'sR
Let them lay pray bray the addle patesR
Mine be Man's thoughts loves hatesR
But some one says Good SirB2
'Tis a worthy versed in what concernsR
The making such labor turn out wellV
You don't suppose that the nosegay smellV
Needs always come from the grape Each bellV
At your foot each bud that your culture spurnsR
The very cowslip would act like myrrhB2
On the stiffest brew good SirB2
Cowslips abundant birthI
O'er meadow and hillside vineyard tooR
Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and outR
Distasteful lesson book all aboutR
Greece and Rome victory and routR
Love verses instead of such vain adoR
So fancies frolic it o'er the earthI
Where thoughts have rightlier birthI
Nay thoughtlings they themselvesR
Loves hates in little and less and leastR
Thoughts 'What is a man beside a mount '-
Loves 'Absent poor lovers the minutes count '-
Hates 'Fie Pope's letters to Martha Blount '-
These furnish a wine for a children's feastR
Insipid to man they suit the elvesR
Like thoughts loves hates themselvesR
And friends beyond disputeR
I too have the cowslips dewy and dearB2
Punctual as Springtide forth peep theyR
I leave them to make my meadow gayR
But I ought to pluck and impound them ehE2
Not let them alone but deftly shearB2
And shred and reduce to what may suitR
Children beyond disputeR
And here's May month all bloomF2
All bounty what if I sacrificeR
If I out with shears and shear nor stopG2
Shearing till prostrate lo the cropG2
And will you prefer it to ginger popG2
When I've made you wine of the memoriesR
Which leave as bare as a churchyard tombF2
My meadow late all bloomF2
Nay what ingratitudeR
Should I hesitate to amuse the witsR
That have pulled so long at my flask nor grudgedR
The headache that paid their pains nor budgedR
From bunghole before they sighed and judgedR
Too rough for our taste to day befitsR
The racy and right when the years concludeR
Out on ingratitudeR
Grateful or ingrate noneH2
No cowslip of all my fairy crewR
Shall help to concoct what makes you winkX
And goes to your head till you think you thinkX
I like them alive the printer's inkX
Would sensibly tell on the perfume tooR
I may use up my nettles ere I've doneH2
But of cowslips friends get noneH2
Don't nettles make a brothI
Wholesome for blood grown lazy and thickI2
Maws out of sorts make mouths out of tasteR
My Thirty four Port no need to wasteR
On a tongue that's fur and a palate pasteR
A magnum for friends who are sound the sickI2
I'll posset and cosset them nothing lothI
Henceforward with nettle brothI

Robert Browning


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