Bacchus

LISTEN to the tawny thief,

Hid beneath the waxen leaf,

Growling at his fairy host,

Bidding her with angry boast

Fill his cup with wine distilled

From the dew the dawn has spilled:

Stored away in golden casks

Is the precious draught he asks.

Who,—who makes this mimic din

In this mimic meadow inn,

Sings in such a drowsy note,

Wears a golden-belted coat;

Loiters in the dainty room

Of this tavern of perfume;

Dares to linger at the cup

Till the yellow sun is up?

Bacchus ’t is, come back again

To the busy haunts of men;

Garlanded and gaily dressed,

Bands of gold about his breast;

Straying from his paradise,

Having pinions angel-wise,—

’T is the honey-bee, who goes

Reveling within a rose!