I raised that night the golden grail,
And held for sacred the ephemeral
For in these seas where I’d set sail,
I cast my net; found not the eternal.
Quaffed with gusto the Golden wine
And held for sacred the perishable
The lunatic loved and he loved fine
but true lover loves the perishing as well
No prophet of decadence am I
Just a poet, a dancer of silent tunes
Singing solitary the songs of high
I hold for truth the shifting dunes
Bathed my lips with Dionysian’s blood
And spoke to my darling comrades thus
Nothing of significance there is lovers
And not a single care better or worse.