WINE


When our thirsty souls we steep,

Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep.

Talk of monarchs! we are then

Richest, happiest, first of men.



When I drink, my heart refines

And rises as the cup declines;

Rises in the genial flow,

That none but social spirits know.



To-day we'll haste to quaff our wine,

As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;

But if to-morrow comes, why then--

We'll haste to quaff our wine again.



Let me, oh, my budding vine,

Spill no other blood than thine.

Yonder brimming goblet see,

That alone shall vanquish me.



I pray thee, by the gods above,

Give me the mighty howl I love,

And let me sing, in wild delight.

"I will--I will be mad to-night!"



When Father Time swings round his scythe,

Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,

So that its juices red and blythe,

May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.



--_Eugene Field_.





_See also_ Drinking.



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