Classic Poem

They washed his body with a wine of gold,
And wrapped it round, to meet his last desire,
In leaves of vine, whose every pale-green spire
Tightened about him with an amorous hold;

And then they buried him in vineyard mould,
Where vintage hymns in summer dusk expire,
And where great vine-roots sucked all round him fire
For fiery cups, as ages o'er him rolled.

A lethargy creeps o'er us on this spot
Where bulbul warbles on oblivion's brink,
And all that man should live for is forgot.

The wine-girl floats towards us with her cup;
Or is it Azrael with darker drink?
Wake up, wake up; shake free thy soul; wake up!