This is not water running here,
    These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
    Down alleyways of dreams.

This is a wine that must flow on
    Not caring how nor where,
So it has ways to flow upon
    Where song is in the air.

So it can woo an artful flute
    With loose, elastic lips,
Its measurement of joy compute
    With blithe, ecstatic hips.