I shall not miss the roses, fading
As soon as spring's fleet days are done;
I like the grapes whose clusters ripen
Upon the hillside in the sun--
The glory of my fertile valley,
They hang, each lustrous as a pearl,
Gold autumn's joy: oblong, transparent,
Like the slim fingers of a girl

--Alexander Pushkin's "Grapes" (1820)

In July in my native land,
The blue grapes ripen in the sun.

Village wisdom clusters around the vines,
The distant skies enter into each berry.

The sea below the sky opens its bosom,
A white sail moves toward the shore.

The traveler I long for would come then,
Wrapping his wayworn body with a blue robe.

If only I could share those grapes with him,
I don't care if the dew wets my hands.

child, take out a white gauze handerchief,
Spread it on the silver platter on our table.
--Yi Yuksa, Korean poet (1905-1944), "Deep-Purple Grapes"

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