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Poem	Arise, O cup-bearer, & bring Fresh wine for our enrapturing! O minstrel, of our sorrow sing— ‘O joy of whose delight we dreamed, O love that erst so easy seemed, What toil is in thy travelling!’ How in the lov’d one’s tent can I Have any rest or gaiety? Ever anon the horsemen cry, ‘O lingering lover, fare thee well!’ Ever I hear the jingling bell Of waiting steed & harnessry. O seeker who wouldst surely bring To happy end thy wandering, O learner who wouldst truly know, Let not earth’s loves arrest thee. Go! Mad thee with heaven’s pure wine & fling To those clear skies thy rapturing.
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