Mix the bowl deep with that old berried drink
Which no Prince else will covet, no fair woman,
Because it is a trivial, common stuff,
A laughter out of hedgerows, ripe and human.
Bruise the tough roots, shrewd jesting such as stirs
In tavern-rooms, flames thrusting through the slats.
We shall be hymned by better revellers
Than they whose feet prance purple in the vats.
Thus when they prate of pearls dissolved in wine
I shall lift glass to some girl gipsy-eyed;
You to a boy with fledglings in his cap,
Speaking the speckled lore of country-side.
I give you pebbles for your brooch, my Queen,
The yellow dust of sheepfolds for your cloak;
But for your under-robe, more thin than dreams,
The burning leaves wind off their spindled smoke.
Grave then your lips in that old noble smile
Of those who drank the fullest and the best;
And set, while time shall batter on our doors,
The asp of all disdain against your breast.