The Lost Bacchante

I’ll tear me a robe from a tiger’s spine,

I’ll bind up my ruddy hair

In a band of tendrils plucked from the vine,

And ivy and grapes I will wear.

And I’ll leap the meadows toward the city,

Where the mortals dance to-night,

And wrench from the breast of the loved one pity,

And fill it with mad delight.

I’ll work in the milky heart of the maid.

With magic I’ll ripen her bosom scanty,

Till her lover gasp nor know that he clasp

No mortal maid, but a lost Bacchante.