 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
LADY DRINKING
The creature knoweth every shape,
And taketh every name,
But in every form, and every hue,
The creature is the same;
The morning drop, and the evening dram,
And the noontide glass, he fills,—
And you see his face unceasingly,
Like a dun, in the time of bills.
And taketh every name,
But in every form, and every hue,
The creature is the same;
The morning drop, and the evening dram,
And the noontide glass, he fills,—
And you see his face unceasingly,
Like a dun, in the time of bills.
He slides into the soldier's lips
From the mouth of a snug canteen;
The drum may beat, and the gun may flash,
But the creature slips between;
He smooths the couch of the weary man,
And diddles the sleeper's brain,
And with the ray of the breaking day,
The creature is there again.
From the mouth of a snug canteen;
The drum may beat, and the gun may flash,
But the creature slips between;
He smooths the couch of the weary man,
And diddles the sleeper's brain,
And with the ray of the breaking day,
The creature is there again.
The maiden sits on her silken seat,
And sips the cordial fair,
And the blush grows deeper on her cheek
For the spite is lurking there;
The deacon walks to the tavern bar,
And calls for a portion thin,—
But he slily winks to the waiting-boy,
And he pours the creature in.
And sips the cordial fair,
And the blush grows deeper on her cheek
For the spite is lurking there;
The deacon walks to the tavern bar,
And calls for a portion thin,—
But he slily winks to the waiting-boy,
And he pours the creature in.
He clears the frog from the preacher's throat,
And he helps the clerk to sing;
And whets the scythe of the mowing man,
In the shape of a mighty sling;
He lends a tongue to the speechless one,
And a flash to the coward's eye;
He burns in a kiss on the lady's lip,
And melts in the lover's sigh.
And he helps the clerk to sing;
And whets the scythe of the mowing man,
In the shape of a mighty sling;
He lends a tongue to the speechless one,
And a flash to the coward's eye;
He burns in a kiss on the lady's lip,
And melts in the lover's sigh.
The farmer fills his tumbler up
And clasps his fingers round;
He says not a word, but he drains the cup,
For the creature there is found.
In the morning mist, and the scorching sun,
And the chill of the evening air;
In the crystal glass and the earthen mug,
The creature still is there.
And clasps his fingers round;
He says not a word, but he drains the cup,
For the creature there is found.
In the morning mist, and the scorching sun,
And the chill of the evening air;
In the crystal glass and the earthen mug,
The creature still is there.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |