THE flower-crowned Greek, amid his ilex-groves,
Breathing sweet breath, the morning in his heart,
Is Nature's fairest word, wherein each part
Of balanced utterance as to music moves.
Not dearer to the Muses than the Loves,
He—braced by art—holding the hippocrene
Which sparkled in his cup, with poise serene,
Drinking grew perfect, as his work approves.

But evening followed on this palmy noon;
The Roman came, and from the drowsy clasp
Wrenched the glad cup; drank and grew strong, too soon
Drank and was drunken; from his loosened grasp
Lapsed cup and wine together. Dawned a morrow
On which the ministry of Love was sorrow.