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Eat thou and
drink, tomorrow thou shalt die.
Surely the earth,
that's wise being very old,
Needs not our help. Then
loose me, love, and hold
Thy sultry hair up from my
face, that I
May pour for thee this golden wine,
brim-high,
Till round the glass thy fingers glow like
gold.
We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours
are tolled
Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing
sky.
Now kiss, and think that there are really
those,
My own high-bosomed beauty, who increase
Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way!
Through many years they toil; then on a day
They die
not, -for their life was death, -but cease;
And round
their narrow lips the mould falls close.
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