When wine I quaff, before my eyes
Dreams of poetic glory rise;
And, freshn’d by the goblet’s dews,
My soul invokes the heavenly Muse,
When wine I drink, all sorrow’s o’er;
I think of doubts and fears no more;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind.
When I drink wine, the ethereal boy,
Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;
And while we dance through vernal bowers,
Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers,
In wine he makes my senses swim,
Till the gale breathes nought but him!
Again I drink, — and, lo, there seems
A calmer light to fill my dreams;
The lately ruffled wreath I spread
With steadier hand around my head;
Then take the lyre, and sing „how blest
The life of him who lives at rest!”
But then comes witching wine again,
With glorious woman in its train;
And while rich perfumes round me rise
That seem the breath of woman’s sighs,
Bright shapes of every hue and form
Upon my kindling fancy swarm,
Till the whole world of beauty seems
To crowd into my dazzled dreams!
When thus I drink, my heart refines,
And rises as the cup declines;
Rises in the genial flow
That none but social spirits know,
When, with young revellers, round the bowl,
The old themselves grow young in soul!
Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine,
There’s bliss in every drop of wine.
All other blessings I have known,
I scarcely dared to call my own;
But this the Fates can ne’er destroy,
Till death o’ershadows all my joy.