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.