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Vincent Van Gogh, The Red Vineyard (1888)

‘Tis past the time of grapes,

Still small on the vine and not yet sweet,

What were your kisses then?

Shy and unsure yet much too willing;

Now, the field lays fallow,

I have missed the best pickings.

You pass me the glass,

Deep red blueberries and oak,

Imbibe with me, come taste

The bold mature flavor,

Entwine and swirl in the drunkenness,

As mouths share final robust kisses.

The last harvest has come and gone;

Laborers replaced by mourners,

Who share moist tears but no kisses.

Death does not require love,

Nor passion, just fidelity;

And this earth gives way for graves.