the bowl, and he said, "Alas, friends! I am too dull of sight and of hearing and of touch. I cannot see the fragrance of this wine, nor hear its song, nor feel the beating of its wings. I perceive but the wine itself. Now therefore must I drink it, that it may sharpen my senses and raise me to your blissful heights."
And putting the bowl to his lips, he drank the punch to the very last drop.
The three poets, with their mouths open, looked at him aghast, and there was a thirsty yet unlyrical hatred in their eyes.