Heliodore

Pour wine, and cry, again, again, again,
To Heliodore!
And mingle the sweet word ye call in vain
With that ye pour:
And bring to me her wreath of yesterday
That 's dark with myrrh;
Hesternae Rosae, ah, my friends, but they
Remember her.

Lo! the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep,
As who repine;
For if on any breast they see her sleep,
It is not mine.