VI
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High-piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"—The Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of her's t' incarnadine.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
