THE CHOICE

Eat thou and drink; to-morrow 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 yellow wine, brim-high,

Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold.

We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours toil'd,

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 days they toil; then comes a day

They die not,— never having lived,— but cease;

And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.