“Wilt thou forsake us forever, unheeding our sedulous plaining?
See’st not the clusters of pale green globes, crescent and straining
Sunwards, that long for thy hand to engarb them with royal attire?
Hear us, O Wine-God; return to us! Kindle once more Desire!”
So chant the Aeolian women till the light be waning
While the foam breaks over their feet in soft folds of fire.
The robes of the sun are red, and close to the earth he dozes;
The long day lingers, then slowly and silently closes
The shadowy orient gates, climbing upward stair by stair,