Note 229 — Chapter XXI · THE ANTHOLOGY.
Reading edition
We trod the brimming wine-press ankle-high, Singing wild songs of Bacchic revelry: Forth flowed the must in rills; our cups of wood Like cockboats swam upon the honeyed flood: With these we drew, and as we filled them, quaffed, With no warm Naiad to allay the draught: But fair Rhodanthe bent above the press, And the fount sparkled with her loveliness: We in our souls were shaken; yea, each man Quaked beneath Bacchus and the Paphian. Ah me! the one flowed at our feet in streams— The other fooled us with mere empty dreams!