Bacchus-

Listen to the tawny thief, Hid beneath the waxen leaf, Growling at his fairy host, Bidding her with angry boast Fill his cup with wine distilled From the dew the dawn has spilled: Stored away in golden casks Is the precious draught he asks. Who,—who makes this mimic din In this mimic meadow inn, Sings in such a drowsy note, Wears a golden-belted coat; Loiters in the dainty room Of this tavern of perfume; Dares to linger at the cup Till the yellow sun is up? Bacchus 'tis, come back again To the busy haunts of men; Garlanded and gaily dressed, Bands of gold about his breast; Straying from his paradise, Having pinions angel-wise,— 'Tis the honey-bee, who goes Reveling within a rose!