Bacchus
BRING
me
wine,
but
wine
which
never
grew
In
the
belly
of
the
grape,
Or
grew
on
vine
whose
tap-roots,
reaching
through
Under
the
Andes
to
the
Cape,
Suffer'd
no
savour
of
the
earth
to
'scape.
Let
its
grapes
the
morn
salute
From
a
nocturnal
root,
Which
feels
the
acrid
juice
Of
Styx
and
Erebus;
And
turns
the
woe
of
Night,
By
its
own
craft,
to
a
more
rich
delight.
We
buy
ashes
for
bread;
We
buy
diluted
wine;
Give
me
of
the
true,
Whose
ample
leaves
and
tendrils
curl'd
Among
the
silver
hills
of
heaven
Draw
everlasting
dew;
Wine
of
wine,
Blood
of
the
world,
Form
of
forms,
and
mould
of
statures,
That
I
intoxicated,
And
by
the
draught
assimilated,
May
float
at
pleasure
through
all
natures;
The
bird-language
rightly
spell,
And
that
which
roses
say
so
well:
Wine
that
is
shed
Like
the
torrents
of
the
sun
Up
the
horizon
walls,
Or
like
the
Atlantic
streams,
which
run
When
the
South
Sea
calls.
Water
and
bread,
Food
which
needs
no
transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering,
wisdom-fruiting,
Wine
which
is
already
man,
Food
which
teach
and
reason
can.
Wine
which
Music
is,—
Music
and
wine
are
one,—
That
I,
drinking
this,
Shall
hear
far
Chaos
talk
with
me;
Kings
unborn
shall
walk
with
me;
And
the
poor
grass
shall
plot
and
plan
What
it
will
do
when
it
is
man.
Quicken'd
so,
will
I
unlock
Every
crypt
of
every
rock.
I
thank
the
joyful
juice
For
all
I
know;
Winds
of
remembering
Of
the
ancient
being
blow,
And
seeming-solid
walls
of
use
Open
and
flow.
Pour,
Bacchus!
the
remembering
wine;
Retrieve
the
loss
of
me
and
mine!
Vine
for
vine
be
antidote,
And
the
grape
requite
the
lote!
Haste
to
cure
the
old
despair;
Reason
in
Nature's
lotus
drench'd—
The
memory
of
ages
quench'd—
Give
them
again
to
shine;
Let
wine
repair
what
this
undid;
And
where
the
infection
slid,
A
dazzling
memory
revive;
Refresh
the
faded
tints,
Recut
the
aged
prints,
And
write
my
old
adventures
with
the
pen
Which
on
the
first
day
drew,
Upon
the
tablets
blue,
The
dancing
Pleiads
and
eternal
men.
