Looking to the Harvest

A lunar luster spills a silvershine cascade of nebulating moonshine lilt onto a night-time field, drawing a quilt of pale radiance over the still vine. A myriad of glowing serpentine twines sleep.—but, slithering round its stout stilt, a wakeless plant is working out its tilt.— It’s fruit will not be ripe enough for wine. So see I, amidst the flourishing grape, the withering blossoms of one string; And gazing on this midnight unlandscape, —too, upon this weakling growth, this failing sproutling,—I sense the shiver whispering through the light leaves,—all but those yet ailing.—