How Yearn I For A Potioned Wine – This Night!

How yearn I for a potioned wine – this night! How race and run the drops of blood How race the red, red drops of blood – this night! How from the face of heaven the clouds Seem swept away by some full-scathing broom How smiling the pale moon! Ah! methinks that the moon, the modest moon Has in itself somehow sometime infused The red, red drops of Bacchus – lo in it The wanness cool is turning to a red And on its cheek already ruddying goeth: And merry looks the moon this merry night. Never would I have thought the moon to be Votary of Bacchus and his ivied green: Nor of its conquest by the sweaty arms Of satyrs fauns and nymphs of Bacchus wild: And in my cheeks like the wan moon So will I potion myself with red, red wine Cool from the earth in cooler beakers kept Delicious as the drops of red, red blood Were to Dracula. Then will I yearn to sleep and drowse and dream.