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Our Euripides, the human—
 With his droppings of warm tears;
And his touches of things common,
 Till they rose to touch the spheres!
Our Theocritus, our Bion,
 And our Pindar's shining goals!—
These were cup-bearers undying,
 Of the wine that's meant for souls.

And my Plato, the divine one,—
 If men know the gods aright
By their motions as they shine on
 With a glorious trail of light—
And your noble Christian bishops,
 Who mouthed grandly the last Greek:
Though the sponges on their hyssops
 Were distent with wine—too weak!

Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him
 With his glorious mouth of gold—
And your Basil, you upraised him
 To the height of speakers old:
And we both praised Heliodorus
 For his secret of pure lies!—
Who forged first his linkèd stories
 In the heat of lady's eyes.

And we both praised your Synesius,
 For the lire shot up his odes!
Though the Church was scarce propitious,
 As he whistled dogs and gods,—
And we both praised Nazianzen,
 For the fervid heart and speech!
Only I eschewed his glancing
 At the lyre hung out of reach.

Do you mind that deed of Até
 Which you bound me to, so fast—