THE WINE OF LIFE

Earthen jar of quaint design,

Fragile clay and slender mould,

I shall soon have drained the wine

Which you still contrive to hold,—

Wine that sixty years ago

Seemed about to overflow.

Few the draughts that now remain,

And I husband them with care,

For naught ever comes again

That is once exhausted there,

And the emptied jar is cast

To the scrap-heap of the past.

Oh, the wine we rashly waste

When held brimming to the lip!

What a difference in its taste

When we drink it sip by sip,

As a miser counts his gold

On a hearth that leaves him cold!

But why should we feel distress

If the jar be far from filled?

Though its contents may be less,

Yet its essence is distilled,

And the best wine always clears

With the passing of the years.

Fermentation is for youth,

But serenity for age;

For a knowledge of the truth

Men have always sought the Sage,

And though youth may live with zest,

‘ Tis in age that one lives best.