William Blake

(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827 / London)

But In The Wine-Presses The Human Grapes Sing Not Nor Dance - Poem by William Blake

But in the Wine-presses the human grapes sing not nor dance:
They howl and writhe in shoals of torment, in fierce flames consuming,
In chains of iron and in dungeons circled with ceaseless fires,
In pits and dens and shades of death, in shapes of torment and woe:
The plates and screws and racks and saws and cords and fires and cisterns
The cruel joys of Luvah's Daughters, lacerating with knives
And whips their victims, and the deadly sport of Luvah's Sons.

They dance around the dying and they drink the howl and groan,
They catch the shrieks in cups of gold, they hand them to one another:
These are the sports of love, and these the sweet delights of amorous play,
Tears of the grape, the death sweat of the cluster, the last sigh
Of the mild youth who listens to the luring songs of Luvah.----

Comments about But In The Wine-Presses The Human Grapes Sing Not Nor Dance by William Blake

  • Silver Star - 4,238 Points Primrose Tee (5/5/2014 6:15:00 AM)

    ummmmmmm okay still thinking of a comment (Report) Reply

    1 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
Read all 1 comments »

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Read poems about / on: howl, dance, death, fire, daughter, joy, son, song

Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004

[Hata Bildir]