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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 bowl 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.

See also Drinking. -Eugene Field.