And the wine is spilt, and the stars are gray,
For the old cold dawn abashes
All the torches turned to ashes,
But the feasters—where are they?
Fled, the sound of pipes at last;
Fled, the panting, goat-shank’d clan,
And the maenad rout have passed,
And the echoes caught and cast
Died where they began.
Never, never, never