Classic Poem

1

The wine-cup is the little silver well
Where truth, if truth there be, doth ever dwell;
Death too is there — and death who would not seek? —
And love that in itself is heaven and hell.

2

The wine-cup is a wistful magic glass,
Wherein all day old faces smile and pass,
Dead lips press ours upon its scented brim,
Old voices whisper many a sweet " alas! "

3

And sometimes in the nodding afternoon,
When all is listening still and half-a-swoon,
Sudden one lifts a shining startled face —
Hark! 'tis the magic bird, the magic tune!

4

Drunkards! so be it — yet if all were wise,
All would be drunk like us, with dreaming eyes:
Poor sober world, so doleful all the day,
Leave mosque and mart, and join our paradise.