Upon a morning when the rising sun His jewelled cup had taken in his hand, And heaven’s arch shone with passionate desire, And dawn was like the glow of ruddy wine, And morning, sipping at the golden cup, Like to some wild disordered reveller seemed, The Rose, who saw the temper of the day, That morning was a bright and lovely thing, And all the landscape round with passion burned, And morning’s glory seemed with dalliance gay, Felt a desire within her flowery grove For high enjoyment in a merry feast. Therefore she order gave that on the lawn A throne of verdure should be raised for her, And that the sweet and placid morning dew Should fill the Tulip’s goblet with her wine. The dwellers in the grove acceptance gave And hastened to obey the queen’s command. And in accordance with her high behest, The flame of revelry was kindled round. The Rose herself presided o’er the rout, And at her feet the faithful Cypress stood, And all the guests regaled themselves on dew, And Tulip lackeys filled each crystal bowl. And as Narcissus took the goblet up A wave of ardent longing swept the throng. The Hyacinth unbound her waving hair, The Musk breathed out her tribute to the feast. The lilies laughed and out they thrust their tongues, Waking the feast with silvery melody. Dumb with astonishment at such a scene, The wry-necked violets stood and blinked their eyes. The mad Brook hurried by the surging crowd, With shouts re-echoing the noisy rout, And gushing forth with impulse of desire The joy that in his bosom overflowed. The Wind blew blandly like a breath from God, And never stopped upon its restless course. His touch was like caresses of desire, His murmur an enchantment of delight, So at full flood the tide voluptuous flowed, The revel’s din was echoed through the world. They drank full beakers of delight that day, And hugging tipplers crowded all the glade. The flowers drank all that nectar amorous, And with rent garments lay inebriate. The tulips seized the wineglass every one, Voluptuous ecstasy their bosoms filled. The Cypress, by the fumes of wind inflamed, Begin to dance and sport in dalliance gay, Not even the wind could tell which way he ran, For now his murmuring tongue with drink was dumb. Two draughts the violet at the beaker took, Then bowed his head in drowsy slumber lost-- The rose garden was all in ruin laid, And on their swords the lilies threw themselves. The Nightingale, as fitted lover true, A stranger feeble, a tormented one, Is wholly sunk in amorous desire; And drunken with the very wine of love, As from the thicket he beheld the feast, Like wine his tears of bitter anguish flowed. Tears were his wine, his eyes the goblet bright, His sorrow’s song the reed-pipe of the dance,