The soldiers lie upon the snow, <br />That no longer gyrates under the spinning lights <br />Night juggles in her fat black hands. <br />They will not babble any more secrets to loose-mouthed <br />nights <br />Expanding in golden auras, <br />While sleigh-bells jingle like new coins the darkness <br />shuffles . . . <br />They will not drink any more wine— <br />Wine of the Romanoffs, <br />Jewelled wine <br />The secret years worked slowly at <br />Till it was wrought to fire, <br />As stones are faceted <br />Until they give out light. <br />The soldiers lie very still. <br />Their shadows have shrunk up close <br />As toads shrink under a stone; <br />And night and silence, <br />The ancient cronies, <br />Foregather above them. <br /> <br />But still over the snow, that is white as a ram's fleece, <br />Arms swing like scythes . . . <br />And shadows in austere lines <br />Sway in a monstrous and mysterious ritual— <br />Shadows of the Kronstad sailors <br />Pouring blood and wine. . . <br />Wine <br />Spurting out of flagons in a spray of amethyst and gold, <br />Creeping in purple sluices; <br />Wine <br />And blood in thin bright streams <br />Besprinkling the immaculate snow; <br />Blood, high-powered with the heat of old vineyards, <br />Boring . . . into the cool snow . . . <br />Blood and wine <br />Mingling in bright pools <br />That suck at the lights of Petrograd <br />As dying eyes <br />Suck in their last sunset. <br /> <br />The night has a rare savor. <br />Out of the snow-piles—altar-high and colored as by a <br />rosy sacrifice— Scented vapor <br />Ascends in a pale incense . . . <br />Faint astringent perfume <br />Of blood and wine.<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-spilling-of-the-wine/
