The House of Life: 71. The Choice, I

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 golden wine, brim-high,

Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold.

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

Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky.

Now kiss, and think that there are really those,

My own high-bosom'd 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.