To Ned Ranck

In the sunless land where thou art gone,
The shadowy realm of Proserpine,
Hast wine to drink, Anacreon?
Still hast thy lute its laughing tone,
Still do thy nymphs the ivy twine,
In the sunless land where thou art gone?
A Bacchus on a reeling throne,
Thy temples bound with trailing vine,
Hast wine to drink, Anacreon?
From cool deep caves of delved stone,
Do slaves still fetch thee Samian wine,
In the sunless land where thou art gone?
Or is a cup's mere semblance shown,
Then snatched from those parch'd lips of thine?—-
Hast wine to drink, Anacreon?

Like Tantalus dost thou make moan,
Plagued by a mockery malign?
In the sunless land where thou art gone
Hast wine to drink, Anacreon?