Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 38

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XXXVIII MANDRAGORA
Pour me red wine from out the Venice flask,
   Pour faster, faster yet!
The joy of ruby thought I do not ask,
     Bid me forget!

Breathe slumbrous music round me, sweet and slow,
   To honied phrases set!
Into the land of dreams I long to go.
     Bid me forget!

Lay not the rose's bloom against my cheek,
   With chill tears she is wet.
The wrinkled poppy is the flower I seek.
     Bid me forget!

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Where is delight? and what are pleasures now?—
   Moths that a garment fret.
The world is turned memorial, crying, "Thou
     Shalt not forget!"

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