Author Richard Henry Stoddard The sky is a drinking-cup, That was overturned of old, And it pours in the eyes of men Its wine of airy gold. We drink that wine all day, Till the last drop is drained up, And are lighted off to bed By the jewels in the cup! Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments