Chapter VII: Heliodora

Say Heliodore, and Heliodore, and still say Heliodore,
And let the music of her name mix with the wine you pour.
And wreath me with the wreath she wore, that holds the scent of myrrh,
For all that it be yesterday's, in memory of her.
The rose that loveth lovers, the rose lets fall a tear
Because my arms are empty, because she is not here.