Under a leering black and crimson moon
Around a flame full of the scent of rose
They dance wildly while Skingrad softly slumbers
Their sleep is the mad Maenad's and Satyr's repose
They dance naked, heavy cloaks discarded,
All around them see how they have strewn
Their silken shirts and crisp taffeta dresses
Silver pins empearled, and velvet gloves bejewelled
Drunk with that deep vintage and gummy sap
The fruit of the vine and the milk of autumn's ivy
A conspiracy of grapes and swollen tendrils, that
Give freely and unrelenting, to the celebrants lively
The ivy vine, with her leaves of jade,
In autumn pierced, she bleeds thick milk
Making wildest Satyrs out of lordly lords,
and raving Maenads out of fairest maids
These cast away their velvet garments as
eagerly as their prudent lives so staid
And the vine swings heavy with its abundance
Of those pillars of chalcedony tears
It weeps
And at its Master's touch it blushes
See its chalcedony skin is steeped
Turning now to amethyst,
The colour of lavender it now flushes deep
The gold-gilt cup o'erfull with the vintage
The juice of the vine pours, o'erflows
The scarlet faces of those who drink deep
The crimson mysteries they have dared to know,
Rule them in nights of pleasure, bursting at the seams
O'erwatched by that wild wine-hearted sovereign
The King of ten times ten thousand dreams
And I too have partaken in no immaterial part
And wandered the black and burgundy halls
In the recesses of my Lord's velvet heart
In which I have made my silken bed
Taffeta corridors from which none but one depart
My heart is sanguine, and my soul is
RED.