STREW not earth with empty stars, <br />Strew it not with roses, <br />Nor feathers from the crest of Mars, <br />Nor summer's idle posies. <br />'Tis not the primrose-sandalled moon, <br />Nor cold and silent morn, <br />Nor he that climbs the dusty noon, <br />Nor mower war with scythe that drops, <br />Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops <br />Of enemies new shorn. <br /> <br />Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know, <br />Pour your music, let it flow, <br />'Tis Bacchus' son who walks below.<br /><br />Thomas Lovell Beddoes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-from-the-second-brother/
