Harry Eyres is a poet and a vintner, and his book on Horace is a delight that will be reviewed here shortly. I write this as we watch our own sun-swollen berries ripen on the vine, the birds poised to dive in the minute they reach peak succulence.

‘Ancient man saw wine as something elemental; the sun-swollen berries of the vine …’

Source: Harry Eyres, Horace and Me (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013), p. 50

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