Flagging and faint are we
With our ceaseless flight,
And dull shall our journey be
Through the realm of night.
Bathe us, O bathe our weary wings,
In the purple wave, as it freshly springs
To your cups from the fount of light--
From the fount of light--from the fount of light:
For there, when the sun has gone down in night,
There in the bowl we find him.
The grape is the well of that summer sun,
Or rather the stream that he gazed upon,
Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth,[7]
His soul, as he gazed, behind him.