The sun sets out the autumn crocuses

And fills them up a pouring measure

Of death-producing wine, till treasure

Runs waste down their chalices.

All, all Persephone’s pale cups of mould

Are on the board, are over-filled;

The portion to the gods is spilled;

Now, mortals all, take hold!

The time is now, the wine-cup full and full

Of lambent heaven, a pledging-cup;

Let now all mortal men take up

The drink, and a long, strong pull.

Out of the hell-queen’s cup, the heaven’s pale wine—

Drink then, invisible heroes, drink.

Lips to the vessels, never shrink,

Throats to the heavens incline.

And take within the wine the god’s great oath

By heaven and earth and hellish stream

To break this sick and nauseous dream

We writhe and lust in, both.

Swear, in the pale wine poured from the cups of the queen

Of hell, to wake and be free

From this nightmare we writhe in,

Break out of this foul has-been.