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Even sad eyes must sparkle in the sun,
But when the miracle of day is done,
Down in a bankrupt darkness deep I lie,
Haunted by all I lost—and might have won!
Yet was there aught to win that is not mine?
I ask not money—only to buy wine;
Women forsake me not for all my sins—
What better winnings, pious friend, are thine?
I am not fit for hell—I am too small;
For heaven I am too heretical;
I love both places, yet not one enough—
'Twixt the two stools I fall, and fall, and fall.
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