Dance and Provençal song and sunburnt mirth! Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene! With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stainèd mouth.
The self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charmd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.