XXXIX*
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of,* but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden — far beneath, and long ago.
XL*
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav’nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav’n
To Earth invert you — like an empty Cup.
XLI*
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow’s tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
XLII*
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in — Yes;
Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY
You were — TO-MORROW you shall not be less.