Mandragora

Pour me red wine from out the Venice flask,
Pour faster, faster yet!
The joy of ruby thought I do not ask,
Bid me forget!

Breathe slumbrous music round me, sweet and slow,
To honied phrases set!
Into the land of dreams I long to go.
Bid me forget!

Lay not the rose's bloom against my cheek,
With chill tears she is wet.
The wrinkled poppy is the flower I seek.
Bid me forget!

Where is delight? and what are pleasures now?—
Moths that a garment fret.
The world is turned memorial, crying, "Thou
Shalt not forget!"