The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town,
Lovers have sung the songs that I have made.
Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven,
Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade.
VIII.
O men! O maidens! O ye listless ones!
Ye who desert my temples in the East,
Ye who reject the rays of summer suns,
And cling to shadows in the wilderness;
Why are ye sad? Why frown ye at the feast,