How is it that at the commencement of springtime the
verjuice of the vine is sharp? And afterwards, how
does it become so sweet? And then how do we find
the wine so bitter? If one makes viols of a piece of
wood by means of a curvèd knife, who would say on
seeing it that a flute could be fashioned by the same
means?
Know you why, at the break of day, the early-rising
cock makes its voice heard each moment? It is to tell
you, through the mirror of the morning, that one more
night has slipped away from your existence, and that
you are still in ignorance.
Give me some of this ruby wine, tinted like the tulip.
Pour from the neck of the flask the pure blood it contains,
for, to-day I can see, outside this cup of wine, no
friend whose inner man is pure.
Pour me, O cupbearer! some wine colored like the
flowers of the Judas-tree, pour, O cupbearer! for grief
comes to oppress my soul; pour for me the nectar, for
it is possible that in making me a stranger to myself, it
will free me one instant from the vicissitudes of this
world.
Thy cup, O my cupbearer! contains liquid rubies; give
some to my soul, O cupbearer! Let it reflect that precious
stone; put in my hand, O cupbearer, this incomparable
cup, for through this I will give new life unto my soul.