Classic Poem

I would drink, stretched upon delicate myrtle boughs and lotus grass. And Love, with his robe fastened about his throat with papyrus, should serve me wine.
For like the wheel of a chariot rolling life hurries past and soon we lie, a little dust of loosened bones.
Why should one perfume a stone? Why shed foolishness upon earth?
While I live I will perfume my head and bind it with roses and speak the name of my mistress.
O Love, before I leave the dance to go under the earth I will scatter sorrow afar!