From cups that are both ours and strange,
Enameled, and adorned with leaves
Of laurel and of ivy green,
We quaff the wine both pure and mixed.
The liquid that within us burns,
Or poured in cups about us gleams
And bird-like sings, brings us away
To the far Isle of dreams. But thou
Enviest not the path of dreams,
Nor sharest in our drunken revel;
For with our fathers' spacious cup,
The strong and simple, thou hast brought
Immortal water from the spring
Of Homer, thou O traveller!
_1903._