Chapter XXX: Book I: , Ode XXXVIII

I hate the Persian’s costly pride:
The wreaths with bands of linden tied--
These, boy, delight me not;
Nor where the lingering roses bide
Seek thou for me the spot.
For me be naught but myrtle twined--
The modest myrtle, sweet to bind
Alike thy brows and mine,
While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined
Beneath th’ o’erarching vine.

TO DELIUS.