I

Crush these voluptuous grapes between your teeth, Your small, strong teeth! and let their purple pain Be offered in a sacrificial rain Of sun-warmed essence; while I twine a wreath Of all their leaves, and place it just beneath Your high-combed curls, to rest upon the plain Of your white temples: though the Nymphs disdain To grace our modern banquet, they bequeath A sylvan fancy to my wayward dream. This glint of candles on the silver round Is yellow moonlight, mirrored in lone stream, These flowers are springing from the sensuous ground, And we are Dryads, 'tis a fitting theme For you to sing; come—thrill the night with sound.