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Whether you would abide or go away,
Wine will befriend you, friend; for, if you stay,
You'll forget going; and, if you must go,
He'll drown you in the very sweetest way.
Some that would leave this world take dreadful means:
One wrenching poisons, one steel, another leans
His brow on sudden fire; but wine is best—
Poets have died so, and many kings and queens.
Wine is the tender friend of suicides,
You drown so softly in its gentle tides;
You know not you are dying, yet you die;
And love with rose-leaves all the ruin hides.
Once in the tavern you have reached the end,
No more to fear from enemy—or friend;
No more to hope, no more to do or say,
Nothing to pray for—nothing to pretend.
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