Be clement still, and steep
Thy breasts in mandragore,
And let thy hands a poppied vintage pour
Whenas we turn, idolatrous,
Fain of thy yielded bliss and given sleep
In nights calamitous.
Tender thou art, and kind:
Unto thy place we came
Through dolorous realms by roads of dust and flame:
Our eyes, in twilight sweetly lost,
Are shut like poppy-buds against the wind
From heavens of holocaust.
Before our feet depart,
With hemlock fill the cup
Our hands unto thy laden urn bold up;
With deadliest dwale bedew thy kiss
To leave a Stygian stillness in the heart
That begs no later bliss.