Anacreontic

When thou forgest silver,

Forge for me, Hephæstus --

Not a suit of armor;

What care I for battles? --

But a hollow goblet,

Deep as thou canst make it.

Carve for me around it --

Not the constellations,

Nor the sad Orion;

I love not the Pleiads,

Nor the bright Arcturus --

Carve a spreading vine-branch,

Rich with hanging clusters;

Mænads at the vintage

And the brimming wine-vats.

Them that tread the wine-press

Make the laughing satyrs,

Golden little cupids,

And smiling Cytheræa;

With our fairest Bacchus,

Eros and Aphroditè.