Ev’n the terror, poison,
Hath its plea for blooming;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.
And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey maker,
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping