What is it, in the grape turning raisin,
In the medlar, in the sorb-apple,
Wineskins of brown morbidity,
Autumnal excrementa;
What is it that reminds us of white gods?
Gods nude as blanched nut-kernels,
Strangely, half-sinisterly flesh-fragrant
As if with sweat,
And drenched with mystery.
Sorb-apples, medlars with dead crowns.
I say, wonderful are the hellish experiences,
Orphic, delicate
Dionysos of the Underworld.
A kiss, and a vivid spasm of farewell, a moment's orgasm of rupture,
Then along the damp road alone, till the next turning.
And there, a new partner, a new parting, a new unfusing into twain,
Although usually thought of as simply the God of wine, Dionysus had some darker aspects to him as well. He was also the God of animalistic passion, the incarnate life force in tree sap or blood, a sort of pulsing, God of the id, if you will. As  Euripides shows  he’s not a one to be messed with.  As the god of the vine/plant liquid life force, he is also somewhat Chthonic, hence the underworld associations here. He also, by some accounts went down to Hades to rescue his mother, Semele and his bride, Ariadne, making him a more successful Orpheus. 
 
 (Chthonic altar at Agrigento, Sicily)
Medlars and Sorb-Apples