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O love, before death comes to make our bed,
Drink wine, red wine, red as the rose is red,
Our bodies are not gold that we should hope
For men to dig us up when we are dead.
Ah, when at last the shrouded Saki, Death,
Brings me a cup so sweet it takes my breath,
Shall I not bid him welcome like his brother?
Life I have feared not, shall I then fear death?
Nor yet shall fail the efficacious Vine:
Wash me as white as silver in old wine,
And for my coffin fragrant timbers take
Of tendrilled wood—(then plant a rose, and dine!)
This is my heart's desire when all is over:
To be the wine-cup of some dreaming lover,
Into his wine a far-off sweetness steal,—
And—who can tell?—the wine might me recover.
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