Classic Poem

Pleasure, the drink by which the gods
Make suffering more keen.
A fleeting paradise of fools
Who're dazzled in its sheen.

'Tis but a day that dulls the sense
To present pain and grief,
That fashions dreams whose wildest flights
Of bliss are only brief.
'Tis but an effervescent draught
That sparkles in the light,
But loses all its glitter at
The first approach of night.

To surfeit till the appetite
Grows sickened at the feast,
But still to feel the stinging pangs
Of hunger more increased.
To drain the cup to its last dregs
With mad, delirious joy.
But still to feel the burning thirst
Which it cannot destroy.
The bright mirage one chases o'er
The hot and burning sands,
And dies with thirst while gazing on
The green and shaky strands.