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.
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