AH, lad, I loathe these Persian pomps And luxuries— These chaplets gay with linden rind, They do not please! So, seek no more the hiding place Where blooms the rose That lingers late among its leaves When summer goes! The simple myrtle wreath is meet For me or thee— For man or master, 'twill suffice; Go, bring it me! I'll ask no more if thou with it My brow entwine And bring me mellow wine to drink Beneath the vine! |