Whether man or may-fly profits of the balm.
As fairy fingers healed
Knights of the olden field,
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.
E’en 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]!