Posthumous Poems/The Cup of God's Wrath

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

THE CUP OF GOD'S WRATH

I
Drink deep and spare not: it is great and wide;
 The corners of it are made thick with gold;
 The wine of it was trodden out of old
In the wine-press of Egypt, where man's pride
Was in his purple raiment sewn and dyed,
 And he grew lusty in God's sight, and bold.
 The grapes of it were never bought or sold.
God's anger hath made red its throat and side;
Choice of quaint spices hath he mixed therein,
 And poisoned honey of a bitter juice,
Under that heavy lid where it hath been
 Covered like oil within a little cruise:
What man hath will to wet his lips between,
 The wine is poured and trodden for his use.

II
As one mows down to burn dead grass and weeds
 Wherein the corn was choked and overgrown,
 So in Time's hand hath Change the sickle mown
An overgrowth of evil days and deeds;
And, as in meadows where the strong flame feeds,
 The land is waste and eaten to the bone
 In fields of dust with ashes overblown
To where the river trembles in its reeds,
So are the churches and broad halls burnt up;
 The priests and princes gathered into sheaves
  And bound for burning; such a fire begins
  The melting of gold pieces and gold sins,
 Ill treasure-traffic, the market-place of thieves,
For whose sake God shall pour out all his cup.

  Oxford.