Classic Poem

When I drink wine my cares are lulled to rest,
No longer sorrow reigneth in my breast.

Of the vast treasures of the Lydian King
Deeming myself possessed, I wish to sing.

The passing glories of my wine-bred dream
Make earthly things to me as trifles seem.

With ivy crowned I languidly recline
Singing the praises of the god of wine.

Gird on thine armour, thou who tak'st delight
In martial splendour, and the fiery fight.
Boy, brim the bowl! the vine's blood I would shed—
'Tis better to lie temulent than dead.