The Flower From the Ashes And Other Verse

d bravely are they clad ; Yes, they have all the tokens His early lovers had. They sing the master passions, Themselves unsad, unglad; And the god, the true lacchus ? He knows they are not mad ! Many are the wand-bearers; The fawn-skin bright they wear; There are among them maenads That rave with unbound hair. They toss the harmless firebrand ? It spends itself in air : And the god, the true lacchus, He smiles ? and does not care. Many are the wand-bearers. And who (ye ask) am I? One who was born in madness, " Evoe !" my first cry ? Who dares, before your spear-points, To challenge and defy ; And the god, the true lacchus, So keep me till I die! Many are the wand-bearers. I bear with me no sign ; Yet, I was mad, was drunken, Ere yet I tasted wine; Nor bleeding grape can slacken The thirst wherewith I pine; And the god, the true lacchus Hears now this song of mine. A SONG ABOUT A SONG A SONG about a song That lives within my heart, There only ? all day long It sings aloof, apart, More solitary-sweet Than rare aeolian string That waits but to repeat What winds from Heaven bring. Oh, never ask the theme ! For if I say, " 'T is Joy," Too much its closes seem What Sorrow would employ. And if I say, '"T is Grief ? 'T is Grief, and Grief alone," Comes Joy, like very thief, To make the theme his own ! A song about a song. . . . But had I perfect art To vo...