In whose wide eyes there seemed to be—
Behind the laughing, wine-flushed face
And tilted ivy-crown's gay grace—
Faint glimpses of Eternity.
Then sad, the Master bowed His head,
And, through the rosy twilight, dim,
Walked up and softly spake to him:
"Art thou not he that late was dead?"
The drinker raised his cup on high,
And murmured: "Priest of Nazareth,