The Soul of Wine is incompatible
With wretched men who long with such deep taste
That they destroy the Cup and lay to waste
The very thing that makes them Crucible.
The Poet's tongue, though reprehensible,
Will find, through consecration, what is chaste:
A black and endless pit, the mortar's paste:
A maw of pearls, incorruptible.
And to those lips I pray that I may see
The blind unfolding of an angel's wings:
A dove of milk in chaliced mystery.
Whoever drinks of this shall know the sea
As it appears in nature when it brings
A Crux of Light through tides of misery.
Adding your comment:
This poet's tongue could wrap itself around any common word and make it an extraordinary one. Such talent spilled from his pen on a regular basis. 
I admire the imagery and fine adjectives, good Sir. 
