html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }HOW strange they seem, those hours of eld,
When on the slightest provocation,
Dear Bibulus, we were impelled
To unrestrained potation!
Alike when Sirius burned on high,
And when the days grew short and bleaker,
We dipped our noses, you and I,
Deep in the brimming beaker.
We talked of poetry and love—
Our hearts were sensitive as tinder—
And praised, all other bards above,
The majesty of Pindar.
But Oh! How little did I think
That I should come, the festive Flaccus,
To follow Pindar's rule of drink
And turn my back on Bacchus!
And yet when mighty Caesar banned
The wine-jar, and himself foreswore it,
With all the loyal in the land
We simply grinned and bore it.
And though, at moments, for the cup
That "elevates" my spirit hankers,
I've doubled, through not liquoring up,
My balance at my bankers.
My sleep is sound, my girth is less,
My flaccid muscles daily harden;
I rise betimes, I bathe and dress,
And hoe my Sabine garden.
Nor am I conscious that my skill
In poesy has been declining
Since I repaired to nature's rill
And made an end of wining.
Come then, when high affairs of State
That keep you captive by the Tiber
Relax their hold, and renovate
Your jaded mental fibre.
I offer you unrationed fruit,
Which I have lately learned to bottle,
And pure Bandusian, undilute,
Shall titillate your throttle.
Here, stretched at ease beneath the vine
(Now balked in its malefic mission)
Shall we experience, as we dine,
The joys of Prohibition.
C. L. Graves.