‘Women, Wine, & Snuff’ – The Poetry of Wine

Give me women, wine and snuff
Until I cry out “hold, enough!”
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection;
For bless my beard they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

- John Keats

It’s no secret the Romantics were for ‘women, wine, & snuff.’ A commonly accepted interpretation of Coleridge’s Khubla Khan concludes he was on opium while composing it.  Lord Byron’s flippant disregard for authority (especially that of young lady’s fathers) was often fueled by a Bacchanalian indulgence. The above mentioned poem by Keats was written very early in his struggle to be “among the English poets,” and is not at all an accurate representation of his genius. But hey, it’s a perfectly accurate representation of the mind of a 20 year old male.

Wine is, of course, meant to be thoroughly enjoyed in a respectable manner – not binged until a cry of “hold, enough!” is required. I suspect the presence of women and snuff made it quite impossible to drink responsibly, especially for a struggling artist in early 19th century England. Keats eventually made up for those six lines of immaturity with a body of work that established him as one of the most beloved English poets of all time.

Keats had a way with language that has warranted praise for his prose (he was a prolific letter writer) and the labeling of his poetry as perhaps the most beautiful ever written in our language. As with any great poet, there is often a sense of something greater hidden implicitly behind the facade of his striking pen. One such instance was brought to my attention by my favorite professor, a brilliant man from Australia, winner of a Fulbright scholarship and now one of the foremost authorities on the Romantics. It (i.e. the instance of implicity) was during a lecture on Keats’ The Eve of St. Agnes, a poem about the seduction of a young woman on the feast of St. Agnes – a night that was once a celebration of virginity. The passage at hand was this one:

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon.

These delicates he heap’d with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—
“And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes’ sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.”

Porphyro, the sleeping maiden’s unrequited lover, has conspired to wake her while she is in a magical sleep – one in which she is supposed to see her true love. Clever guy, and to add to the effect he has produced a feast of “candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd,” along with many other fancy delicacies. Upon reading these lines aloud, my professor exclaimed: “I’m surprised Porphyro forgot the Sauvignon Blanc!”

Indeed, a nice glass of chilled wine might have sealed the deal for “heaven’s eremite.” Keats himself was much more of a charmer, winning the heart of his beloved through some of the most scintillating love letters read by any woman. Then, of course, they would share a bottle of wine and read poetry long into the night!