Weaker strains to me belong,
Pæans sung to thee, Souchong!
What though I may never sip
Rubies from my tea-cup’s lip;
Do not milky pearls combine
In this steaming cup of mine?
What though round my youthful brow
I ne’er twine the myrtle’s bough?
For such wreaths my soul ne’er grieves.
Whilst I own my Twankay’s leaves.