All that my soul hath felt and known,
Then look within the wine-cup’s glow;
See if its brightness can atone;
Think of its flavor would you try,
If all proclaimed,—’Tis drink and die.
Tell me I hate the bowl,—
Hate is a feeble word;
I loathe, abhor, my very soul
By strong disgust is stirred
Whene’er I see, or hear, or tell