Classic Poem

Many are the wand-bearers;
— Their windy shouts I hear
Along the hillside vineyard,
— And where the wine runs clear;
They show the vine-leaf chaplet,
— The ivy-wreathen spear,
But the god, the true Iacchus,
— He does not hold them dear.

Many are the wand-bearers,
— And bravely are they clad;
Yes, they have all the tokens
— His early lovers had.
They sing the master passions,
— Themselves unsad, unglad;
And the god, the true Iacchus —
— He knows they are not mad!

Many are the wand-bearers;
— The fawn-skin bright they wear;
There are among them maenads
— That rave with unbound hair.
They toss the harmless firebrand —
— It spends itself in air:
And the god, the true Iacchus,
— He smiles — and does not care.

Many are the wand-bearers,
— And who (ye ask) am I?
One who was born in madness,
— " Evoe! " my first cry —
Who dares, before your spear-points,
— To challenge and defy;
And the god, the true Iacchus,
— So keep me till I die!

Many are the wand-bearers.
— I bear with me no sign;
Yet, I was mad, was drunken,
— Ere yet I tasted wine;
Nor bleeding grape can slacken
— The thirst wherewith I pine;
And the god, the true Iacchus,
— Hears now this song of mine.