|
|
Pour me the wine of liquid flame, And steep my soul in rubied flow; Perhaps twill banish cares away, And tinge with rose this world of woe Perchance 'twill drown the pangs of life In Bacchus' horn of nectared fire, And Fancy find for me a maid Upon whose bosom I'll expire. On whirlwind's wing my steed and I Will cleave the waves of oceans wide. We'll fly the haunts of mortal man Where every joy of mine has died. For death on high is sweeter far Than life upon the earth below Which is an urn of buried hopes, Floating on a sea of woe. |
