The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape,
  Bossed o’er with gems, were beautiful to view;
But, for the madness of the vaunted grape,
  Their only draught was a pure limpid dew,

To Spirits sweet; but these half-mortal lips
  Longed for the streams that once on earth they quaffed;
And, half in shame, Tahathyam coldly sips
  And craves...