Singing.

Hearken my chant, 'tis

As a Bacchante's,

A grape-spurt, a vine-splash, a tossed tress, flown vaunt 'tis!

Suffer my singing,

Gipsy of Seasons, ere thou go winging;

Ere Winter throws

His slaking snows

In thy feasting-flagon's impurpurate glows!

The sopped sun—toper as ever drank hard—

Stares foolish, hazed,

Rubicund, dazed,

Totty with thine October tankard.

Francis Thompson