A WINE-DRINKER’S METAPHORS.
As the nightingale oft from a rose’s dew sips,
So I wet with fresh wine my belanguishing lips.
As the soul of perfume through a flower’s petals slips,
So pure wine passes through the rose-door of my lips.
As to port from afar float the full-loaded ships,
So this wine-beaker drifts to the strand of my lips.
As the white-driven sea o’er a cliff’s edges drips,
So the red-tinted wine breaks in foam on my lips.