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Wine is bottled poetry, Poet is
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前几日和许久未见的老同学吃饭，说起当年我是班里公认的艺女青年，老同学说其实是孤独青年所以显得文艺，似乎很有道理。小时候一度想成为一个诗人，当年喜欢海子等诗人，为他们的孤僻、不被理解、自杀这些标签所吸引，甚至觉得自己应该像海子一样生命终结在二十五岁……长大之后对诗歌有了更深入的认识，会发现他们对生活的爱对美好的向往才是真正要去领悟和体会的。（PS今年二十六岁的me，很妥）
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很多人都问过我当初为什么会选择葡萄酒这个专业，现在想想，除了好奇心和喜欢喝酒之外，可能也和自己的文艺情结有或多或少的联系。不管是把诗酿进酒里，还是把酒写进诗里，在我看来都是非常浪漫的一件事。
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除了我们的大诗人李白“斗酒诗百篇”，西方也有很多诗人是葡萄酒的忠实FANS，各种写诗赞美葡萄酒。英国的浪漫主义诗人珀西·比希·雪莱（Percy Bysshe Shelley）赞美葡萄树为“散发着炙热希望的火种”，而智利诗人聂鲁达（Pablo Neruda）将葡萄酒描述为“流淌着紫色或黄色血液的大地的孩子，如星星般闪耀”。不难看出西方的大诗人们对葡萄酒的溢美之词比我国古代诗人有过之而无不及啊。
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个人最喜欢的英国诗人之一——威廉·巴特勒·叶芝（William Butler Yeats）有一首饮酒诗，本人用不高的文学素养翻译了一把，字斟句酌了许久，欢迎交流。（此处特别鸣谢帮我改了点睛之字的文艺帅叔）
叶芝出生在爱尔兰，着迷于神秘的占星术，获过诺贝尔奖，他的诗歌受英国诗人珀西影响比较深。当年和另一位诗人内斯特·里斯(Ernest Rhys)共同创立了“押韵俱乐部”(Rhymers ' Club)，号召了一群伦敦诗人，他们经常在一个小酒馆里见面，背诵各自的诗句，在他的自传里把这个小团体称作“悲剧一代”。
A Drinking Song 饮酒歌
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
美酒口中入
爱意眸中来
珍重此刻情
莫待青丝尽
执杯欲饮时
相顾徒叹哀
感觉叶芝的这首诗和李白的“人生得意须尽欢，莫使金樽空对月”有着异曲同工之妙，珍惜眼前人珍惜杯中酒，不要辜负这美好。
下面几首也是非常美的关于酒的诗歌，大家可以自行感受一下，毕竟就算同一首诗一千个人有一千种解读，我就不全部强行翻译了。
The Vine-Shroud
Flourishing vine, whose kindling clustersglow
Beneath the autumnal sun, none taste of thee;
For thou dost shroud a ruin, and below
The rotting bones of dead antiquity.
Sicilian Wine
I’ve drunk Sicilia’s crimson wine!
The blazing vintage pressed
From grapes on Etna’s breast,
What time the mellowing autumn sun did shine:
I‘ve drunk the wine!
I feel its blood divine
Poured on the sluggish tide of mine,
Till, kindling slow, Its fountains glo
With the light that swims
On their trembling brims,
And a molten sunrise floods my limbs!
Divine Apollo!
Then thou thy lute shalt twine
With Bacchic tendrils of the glorious vine
That gave Sicilian wine:
And henceforth when the breezes run
Over its clusters, ripening in the sun,
The leaves shall still be playing,
Unto thy lute its melody repaying,
And I, that quaff, shall evermore be free
To mount thy car and ride the heavens with thee!
Song to Celia: Drink to me only
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope,
that there It could not withered be:
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when, it grows and smells,
I swear, Not of itself, but thee!作者 / 编辑：妫语姬
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