Wine Of Summer

From the deep azure chalice of the sky, Inverted on the vale And hot horizons pale, The philtered wine of summer drains away. . . . It was but yesterday We drank that draft together, you and I. Here in the grove the fallen needles bear, Broken and disarrayed, The print our presence made. . . . O! haunted hollow left by your sweet form! How the swift tears are warm In eyes that seek and cannot find you there. It seems the selfsame wind is in the pine That sighed or sank above Our ecstasy and love. . . . But now no dryad face, no dryad voice Shall make my heart rejoice, No dear Bacchante wear the wilding vine. O love! no other lips than ours have known How sweet the wine, how sweet With honey and soft heat Mingling within that blissful magistral . . . And yet how sadly fall The slow, slow drops for him that drinks alone.