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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=448088" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Iron Wine</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=448088" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,<br>It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies,<br>And purple, like the blood of elderberries.<br>Surely it is a strong wine - juice distilled of the fierce iron.<br>I am drunk of its fumes.<br>I feel its fiery flux<br>Diffusing, permeating,<br>Working some strange alchemy…<br>So that I turn aside from the goodly board,<br>So that I look askance upon the common cup,<br>And from the mouths of crucibles<br>Suck forth the acrid sap.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Lola+Ridge">Lola Ridge</a></strong></div>

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