Not for us the crimson wave, that darkling
Stains the lips of olden drinking-horns!
We will quaff, beneath the noontide glowing,
Draughts of nectar, sweet as faery dew;
Couched on ferny banks, where light airs blowing,
Shake the leaves between us and the blue.
We will pledge, in breathless, long libation,
All we have been, or have sworn to be—
Fame, and Joy, and Love’s dear adoration—
Summer’s lusty bacchanals are we!