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Updated: May 9, 2025
The tall pine-trees whispering to each other across the sky-openings above me, the graceful ferns, the velvet mosses dotted with scarlet fairy-cups, as if the elves had just spread their table for tea, the unspeakable charm of the spice-breathing air, all wove a web of enchantment about me, from which I had no wish to disentangle myself.
And, inviting young Bacchus to be of the party, We'll drown all our troubles in oceans of wine! And perfumed with Macassar or Otto of roses, We'll pass round the BISHOP, the spice-breathing cup, And take of that medicine such wit-breeding doses, We'll knock down the god, or he shall knock us up. These terms imply very different things.
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