The great bowl tilts; along its brim there glows,
Gathered in splendid foam the light's last lees:
A sinking froth, whose every bubble shows
How wondrous were the wine's translucencies.
The Drinker's mouth is hard set to the rim;
In urgent ecstasy his lips are strained;
Slowly he draws the last dregs unto him -
The draught is finished and the chalice drained.
The dawn's white hand to-morrow shall restore
With brimming wine this self-same emptied cup;
But I am sad, for no dawn can re-pour
The self-same vintage that this night drank up.