Classic Poem

Skilled Hephaestus, matchless wright,
Carve me from this silver bright
Neither arms nor panoply;
Battles, wars, are naught to me.
Fashion me a hollow bowl,
Deep so that my thirsty soul
In its depths my cares may sink
When the grateful juice I drink.
Grave me no fantastic forms,
Nor Orion, star of storms;
Neither let Bootes rise
Glittering in the mimic skies;
Nor the Wain nor Pleiades;
What have I to do with these!
Master, on the goblet shape
Purple clusters of the grape;
Let the wine-press, too, be trod
By love's naked gold-tressed god,
And let fair Lyaeus be
Present at the revelry.