Here are the ragged towers of vines <br />Stepped down the slope in terraces. <br /> <br />Through torn spaces between spearing leaves <br />The lake glows with waters combed sideways, <br />And climbing up to reach the vine-spire vanes <br />The mountain crests beyond the far shore <br />Paint their sky of glass with rocks and snow. <br /> <br />Lake below, mountains above, between <br />Turrets of leaves, grape-triangles, the labourer stands. <br /> <br />His tanned trousers form a pedestal, <br />Coarse tree-trunk rising from the earth with bark <br />Peeled away at the navel to show <br />Shining torso of sun-burnished god <br />Breast of lyre, mouth coining song. <br /> <br />My ghostly, passing-by thoughts gather <br />Around his hilly shoulders, like those clouds <br />Around those mountain peaks their transient scrolls. <br /> <br />He is the classic writing all this day, <br />Through his mere physical being focussing <br />All into nakedness. His hand <br />With outspread fingers is a star whose rays <br />Concentrate timeless inspiration <br />Onto the god descended in a vineyard <br />With hand unclenched against the lake's taut sail <br />Flesh filled with statue, as the grape with wine.<br /><br />Stephen Spender<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-labourer-in-the-vineyard/
