Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.
And David’s lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!”
“Red Wine!”—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to’ incarnadine.