No more verses in praise of wine!

No more verses in praise of Wine!
No more gauds for the gods of Woe!
Better by far to sit supine
Watching the current of strong life flow,
Crouched by a hearth where the false fires glow;
Conning the comedy, line by line—
No more gauds for the gods of Woe!
No more verses in praise of Wine!

Shirking the fight that a man should fight,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,
Scorning the breath of a plumed thought’s flight,
Down with the swine and the husks below—
’Tis thus we reap from the seed we sow!
Hearts grow withered and locks grow white,
Dodging the joys that a man should know,
Shirking the fight that a man should fight.

No more verses in praise of Wine!
Where are the glorious days we knew
Touched with the rays of a light divine,
Decked with a garland of thyme and rue?
Where is their glamour for yours and you?
Where is their laughter for me and mine?
Where are the glorious days we knew
Ere knees were bent to the gods of Wine?

See our boat, with a broken mast,
Cleaving a sea that is rough and grey!
Cargoes come to the port at last:
Ashes and Dead Sea fruit are they.
The climax this of a soul-less play—
We were the stars of a soul-less cast—
Over a sea that is rough and grey
Drifts our boat, with a broken mast.

No more verses in praise of Wine!
Yet, through a tangle of years and strife,
Constant still do her true eyes shine—
Mother, or sweetheart, or child, or wife.
Is there a haven where Hope is rife,
Holding a remnant of life’s design?
Is there a light on the shores of life,
Pointing a course from the sea of Wine?