Andrew Lang (1844–1912)

POUR wine, and cry, again, again, again,

To Heliodore!

And mingle the sweet word ye call in vain

With that ye pour:

And bring to me her wreath of yesterday

That ’s dark with myrrh;

Hesternae Rosae, ah, my friends, but they

Remember her.

Lo! the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep,

As who repine;

For if on any breast they see her sleep,

It is not mine.