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The sixtieth cup makes me so wise with wine,
A thousand riddles clear as crystal shine,
And much I wonder what it can have been
That used to puzzle this poor head of mine.
Yet with the morn, the wine-deserted brain
Sees all its riddles trooping back again;
Say, am I sober when I see nought clear?
And am I drunk when I see all things plain?
When I am drunk the sky of life is clear,
And I gaze into it without a fear,
As I grow sober horribly I dread
The shadows of my vultures drawing near.
And, as I drink, up through my brain there grows
The thornless image of a magic rose,
Whereto comes singing sweet a nightingale—
The wine-rose fades, and the brown wine-bird goes.
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