Of life; the ebb begins, and dark
The future lowers. The tide of wine
Will never ebb. ’Twill aye be mine
To mourn the desecrated fane
Where that lost pledge of youth lies slain.
III
Nay, nay, begone! The jocund bowl
Again shall bolster up my soul
Against itself. What, good-man, hold!
Canst tell me where red wine is sold?