Vine tendrils drooping in the mid-day sun
Take me to Greece, ere Sappho sang those lays,
Whose echoes, falling down this length of days,
Trance us with beauty, sweet and halcyon;
Satyrs, green-garlanded, skip madly on
Through woody wilds, loud shouts of ribald praise
Mingle with merry laughter, and amaze
The peaceful shepherds, who, affrighted, run;
Fair dryads swell the riot-filling song
From every tree trunk, and from each pure spring
Sweet naiad voices rise with silvery ring
To welcome him who leads the dancing throng,
Old Bacchus! reeling ’neath the weight of wine,
Chanting a stave, half drunken, half divine.