III.

Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon, Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here, As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon, And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear; And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe, The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire, Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited, I cast my trailing robe O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre, And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.