III
Notwith libations, but with shouts and laughterWe drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove,Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient afterThe launching of the coloured moths of Love.Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zoneWe bound about our irreligious brows,And fettered him with garlands of our own,And spread a banquet in his frugal house.Not yet the god has spoken; but I fearThough we should break our bodies in his flame,And pour our blood upon his altar, hereHenceforward is a grove without a name,A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
Notwith libations, but with shouts and laughterWe drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove,Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient afterThe launching of the coloured moths of Love.Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zoneWe bound about our irreligious brows,And fettered him with garlands of our own,And spread a banquet in his frugal house.Not yet the god has spoken; but I fearThough we should break our bodies in his flame,And pour our blood upon his altar, hereHenceforward is a grove without a name,A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
Notwith libations, but with shouts and laughterWe drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove,Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient afterThe launching of the coloured moths of Love.Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zoneWe bound about our irreligious brows,And fettered him with garlands of our own,And spread a banquet in his frugal house.Not yet the god has spoken; but I fearThough we should break our bodies in his flame,And pour our blood upon his altar, hereHenceforward is a grove without a name,A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,Whence flee forever a woman and a man.