 | Love-Lore (1895) |  |
238
THE LAST TOAST
Fling your hearts in the bowl till the liquor runs o'er!
We have drunk many healths, there remaineth one more:
We have named the Belovèd, the Fond and the Fair;—
One toast yet invites us while time is to spare.
We have drunk many healths, there remaineth one more:
We have named the Belovèd, the Fond and the Fair;—
One toast yet invites us while time is to spare.
Fling your hearts in the bowl, for the red wine runs low;
And my toast must be had ere one man of us go.
We have honour'd the Absent, and thought of the Dead
In the silence of love when no tear may be shed.
And my toast must be had ere one man of us go.
We have honour'd the Absent, and thought of the Dead
In the silence of love when no tear may be shed.
Fling your hearts in again! there's enough for a health:
To the Fair whom we name not but worship by stealth?
To the Fair long since loved? We remember'd them all.—
To the “Unfair,” at leisure, or foul you befall!
To the Fair whom we name not but worship by stealth?
To the Fair long since loved? We remember'd them all.—
To the “Unfair,” at leisure, or foul you befall!
Full glasses to Her whom Love seems to forget,
Whom Joy, narrow-minded, asks not to his set,
To her the unworship'd, unwed, and unwoo'd,
The Childless, the Martyr to life-solitude!
239
To her the unworship'd, unwed, and unwoo'd,
The Childless, the Martyr to life-solitude!
Alone,—ay, heart-lonely! Unlovely? Alas!
Love himself the Most Lovely hath brought to this pass.
Drink! drink! Who'll refuse, but to quit him of wrong;
Or grudge her the Poet's poor solace of song?
Love himself the Most Lovely hath brought to this pass.
Drink! drink! Who'll refuse, but to quit him of wrong;
Or grudge her the Poet's poor solace of song?
| Love-Lore (1895) | |