Classic Poem

Zagreus, our Lord,
Who givest a sword,
O Hunter of men who art hunted and slain,
Art thou drunk with the strong
Glad wine-cup's song,
Or with bitter delight of luxurious pain?

Vine-tendrils enmesh
Thy limbs and flesh,
And bite like serpents and bind like thongs;
And we shed dim dust
On the pride and lust
Of thy tigers and women and cymbals and songs.

For our hands and feet
Were fierce with the heat
Of a flame that scorches, a fire that sears;
And we wreaked our will
By hollow and hill
And made thee, O Hunter, the sport of our spears.

Thy wine is a fierce
Sheer sword to pierce,
And our hearts were fulfilled with its purple flood,
And we slew our Lord
With that sharp, clear sword,
And the dark earth was bright with the blossom of blood.

But as garlands of flowers,
In the dance of the Hours,
The shreds of thy red-dripping flesh shall be spun;
And god of the Spring,
Afresh shalt thou bring,
Wild honey and vine-leaves and songs of the sun.