And amorous tears, and high indignant hate,
Laughter, desires, passions, and hopes, and rest,—
The drunkard’s sleep, the poet’s shout to fate,—
All from these bottles filled a human breast!
Magician of the apron! Let us see—
What is that draught you are shaking now for me?
VIII. THE DEVIL AMONG THE TAILORS
They groaned—“His aims are not as ours.”
He mused—“What end to mortal powers?”
They urged—“Your fair ideals have fled.”