Surely the Great God possessed him! And the mystic sisters too, Oeno, Spermo, and Elais, (Who knoweth what their way is?) Surely they caressed him! He whose tongue of old was frozen-- As he quaffs, with this potation Deep and deeper inspiration Seems to grow a Prophet--chosen, For he speaks by divination! Never were such fancies woven From the carded thoughts of mortal. Some are mazed, and some deride him, "Lo, his wits have gone astray, What a fool he is!" they say. Others whisper (those beside him) "He hath crossed another portal-- He is one whose foot is cloven. Do ye hear wild creatures beat Lifted hoof and naked feet On the quiet woodland sod? Do ye mark what mood that strain is? Hints it not the Shepherd God With his pipings shrill and sweet-- Snubnose, Sweetwine, old Silenus, All his creatures shy and fleet?" Deeper, deeper, Fire and Dew Drains he of the Wine-God's brew Craving furthest essence--thus Heareth now another voice Terrible and new, Luring--appalling, "Iachus! Iachus! Iachus! Wine! Wine! Wine! Rejoice!" Thru the forest calling. And the sky is red and golden And the red, red stars are falling, Falling to the earth in showers. And the fresh blood-scents embolden Gold and sable leopards, sleeping, To come crawling, writhing, leaping, Over gold and purple flowers. And the autumn sun is swollen With the sweetness he has stolen From the wine, and he is wine, wine-red. Come ye now with wreathed head, Come ye now With ivy bound on your white brow, And forgotten, forgotten be the hours! Forgotten and forgotten! Ah the night has fled away, And the wine is spilt, and the stars are gray, For the old cold dawn abashes All the torches turned to ashes, But the feasters--where are they? Fled, the sound of pipes at last; Fled, the panting, goat-shank'd clan, And the maenad rout have passed, And the echoes caught and cast Died where they began. Never, never, never A more sombre river From such springs of laughter ran! And the lucid pool of wit-- What a scum has clouded it! Past each stately Parian column Day comes, gaunt and pale and shrunken And her step is very solemn. On the veined marble sunken, Reft of breath of Deity, Prone there, lies the Priest--the Chosen, Huddled, bestial, bleared and drunken-- Like a body that is frozen (That such things should be!) Shape of shapeless mockery He had tasted all one can; He had heard the pipes of Pan; He had followed in thy van Dionysus, Dionysus, son of Semele-- Satyr?--not a satyr he--a man! THE TRAIL BY NIGHT