What change was in store,
By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets
        Which woke me before
I could open my shutter, made fast
        With a bough and a stone,
And look thro’ the twisted dead vine-twigs,
        Sole lattice that’s known. 40
Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,
        While, busy beneath,
Your priest and his brother tugged at them,
        The rain in their teeth. 
And out upon all the flat house-roofs
        Where split figs lay drying,
The girls took the frails under cover: 
        Nor use seemed in trying
To get out the boats and go fishing,
        For, under the cliff, 50
Fierce the black water frothed o’er the blind-rock. 
        No seeing our skiff
Arrive about noon from Amalfi,
        —­Our fisher arrive,
And pitch down his basket before us,
        All trembling alive
With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit;
        You touch the strange lumps,
And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner
        Of horns and of humps, 60
Which only the fisher looks grave at,
        While round him like imps
Cling screaming the children as naked
        And brown as his shrimps;
Himself too as bare to the middle
        —­You see round his neck
The string and its brass coin suspended,
        That saves him from wreck. 
But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,
        So back, to a man, 70
Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards
        Grape-harvest began. 
In the vat, halfway up in our houseside,
        Like blood the juice spins,
While your brother all bare-legged is dancing
        Till breathless he grins
Dead-beaten in effort on effort
        To keep the grapes under,
Since still when he seems all but master,
        In pours the fresh plunder 80
>From girls who keep coming and going
        With basket on shoulder,
And eyes shut against the rain’s driving;
        Your girls that are older,—­
For under the hedges of aloe,
        And where, on its bed
Of the orchard’s black mould, the love-apple
        Lies pulpy and red,
All the young ones are kneeling and filling
        Their laps with the snails 90
Tempted out by this first rainy weather,—­
        Your best of regales,
As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,
        When, supping in state,
We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen,
        Three over one plate)
With lasagne so tempting to swallow,
        In slippery ropes,
And gourds fried in great purple slices,
        That colour of popes. 100
Meantime, see the grape bunch they’ve brought you: