Pour wine, and cry again, again, again!
And mingle the sweet word ye call in vain
With that ye pour!
And bring to me her wreath of yesterday
That's dank with myrrh;
Hesternae Rosae, ah my friends, but they
Lo the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep
As who repine,
For if on any breast they see her sleep
It is not mine!
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