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Before mine eyes, like shapes of life,
Kindling old loves and deadly strife.
Drink to me first!—nay do not scorn
These sparkling dews of night;
I pledge thee in the silver horn
Of yonder moonlet bright:
'Tis stinted measure now, but soon
Thy cup shall overflow;
It half was spilled two hours agone,
That little flowers might grow,
And weave for me fine robes of silk;
For which good deeds, stars drop them milk.
Nay, take the horn into thy hand,
The goodly silver horn,
And quaff it off. At my command
Each flower-cup, ere the mom,
Shall brimful be of glittering dews,
And then we'll have large store
Of heaven's own vintage ripe for use,
To pledge our healths thrice o'er;
So skink the can as maiden free,
Then troll the merry bowl to me!
