Classic Poem

O blithe stray spirit of the Teian muse!
Anacreon, Lyaeus-loved of old,
Thou scornedst the praise of men, and Gyges' gold,
And lotus-wreathed, rose-garlanded, didst choose
A life of pleasure; with the hybla dews
Parnassian thy lips were flecked. Old Age
Shrank cowering from thee, care-despising sage,
Whose songs forever joy and mirth diffuse.

With soft Ionic murmurs as a stream
Rolling persuasion through the myrtle glades;
Haunted by festive fauns and wood-nymphs bright:
So flows thy strain. Ah! master, comes a dream
Of Pyrrha, and the white Achaean maids
To thee in the ghost-glimmering vales of night?