114 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



While with swelling gladness blest, 



Heaves my friend's rejoicing breast. 



Oh, come home, lost friend of mine, 



Scared from out my tent and land. 



Drink from me the spicy wine, 



Milk and must from out my hand. 



Cares which hovered round my brow, 

 Vanish, while the garden now 

 Girds itself with myrtle hedges, 

 Bright-hued edges 

 Round it lie. 

 Suddenly 



All my sorrows die. 

 See the breathing myrrh-trees blow, 



Aromatic airs enfold me. 

 While the splendour and the glow 

 Of the walnut-branches hold me. 



And a balsam-breath is flowing, 

 Through the leafy shadows green, 



On the left the cassia's growing, 

 On the right the aloe's seen. 



Lo, the clear cup crystalline, 

 In itself a gem of art, 



Ruby-red foams up with wine, 



Sparkling rich with froth and bubble. 



I forget the want and trouble, 



Buried deep within my heart. 



Where is he who lingered here, 

 But a little while agone ? 



