Evhoe! Evhoe!
The cries of lofty Cithaeron,
with spires ever clad in snow--
ivy-decked--

"I will give thee wine,
"I will give thee milk,
"I will give thee honey for thy babe."

Grasping arms twine,
greedy for the omniscience
of sorrowful, ruby wine:
      Oh for a draught of vintage! that hath been
            Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
      Tasting of Flora and the country green,^*
but the refrain comes too brief a time,
fades away in all its splendor,
and the maenad chokes
on a mouthful of blood,
grasping a tarnished thyrsus.
The ivy turns to pine,
turns to smoke,
and ancient lore
swells with bitter wisdom.

^*Italicized portion excerpted from Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale"

[By Darcy Krasne]