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O have you deemed, who looked on us with scorn,
Poor drunkards, dreaming-drunk from morn to morn,
Our raiment stained, our reputation gone,
That all our heart is grape or barley-corn?
Within the haunted wine-cup more than wine
It is that makes a mortal man divine,
We seek a drink more deadly and more strange
Than ever grew on any earthly vine.
The wine-cup is the little silver well
Where Truth, if Truth there be, doth ever dwell;
Death too is there,—and Death who would not seek?—
And Love that in itself is Heaven and Hell.
The wine-cup is a wistful magic glass,
Wherein all day old faces smile and pass,
Dead lips press ours upon its scented brim,
Old voices whisper many a sweet 'alas!'
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