Strew not earth with empty stars,
    Strew it not with roses, 
Nor feathers from the crest of Mars,
    Nor summer's idle posies. 
'Tis not the primrose-sandalled moon,
    Nor cold and silent morn, 
Nor he that climbs the dusty noon,
Nor mower war with scythe that drops,
Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops
    Of enemies new shorn.

Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know,
Pour your music, let it flow,
'Tis Bacchus' son who walks below.