I quaff thee, O Nepenthe! Ah, the wonder
Grows that there be who scorn not wealth and ease,
Who still will choose the street-life, rough and blurred,
Who will not quest you, O Hesperides!...
III
And now, and now... I feel the forest-moss!
O, on these moss-beds let me lie with Pan,
Twined with the ivy-vine in tendrilled curls!
And I will hold all gold that hampers man