Behold the chaff is beaten from the wheat:
Dost thou not hear the flails upon the floor?
Within the presses purple-stained feet
Bruise joy from out the grape, and o'er and o'er
The tale of Bacchus and the vine is told.
Laughter and dance and song are everywhere.
Shall we who live and love be then denied
The harvest? Nay; the fields are not all bare;
Still have they fragrant autumn gourds of gold;
The trees have yet their majesty and pride.