THE sun sets out the autumn
crocuses
And fills them up a pouring measure
Of death-producing
wine, till treasure
Runs waste down their chalices.
All, all Persephone’s pale cups of
mould
Are on the board, are over-filled;
The portion to the
gods is spilled;
Now, mortals all, take hold!
The time is now, the wine-cup full
and full
Of lambent heaven, a pledging-cup;
Let now all mortal
men take up
The
drink, and a long, strong pull.
Out of the hell-queen’s cup, the
heaven’s pale wine —
Drink then, invisible heroes, drink.
Lips to the
vessels, never shrink,
Throats to the heavens
incline.
And take within the wine the god’s
great oath
By heaven and earth and hellish stream
To break this sick
and nauseous dream
We writhe and lust in, both.
Swear, in the pale wine poured from
the cups of the
queen
Of hell, to wake
and be free
From this nightmare we writhe in,
Break out of this foul
has-been.