War and Love/The Wine-Cup
THE WINE-CUP
Life was to us an amphora of wine
Pressed from full grapes
Upon the warm slopes of the Cyclades—
Wine that brings light
Into the gloomiest eyes of man,
Wine, cooled and mingled for eager lip.
We had but gazed upon the amphora,
Touching the figures painted on its flanks—
Achilles reining in his four great horses
Or Mænads dancing to a Faun's pipe.
We had but sipped the wine,
Watching its changing hue—
Deep purple in the shadowy amphora
But crimson where the light
Pierces the crystal cup.
And if we thought:
"True, the cup soon is emptied,
The amphora rings hollow
An our veins lack warmth and life"—
It did give us a gentle melancholy
Making our present joy more keen and clear.
But now
Cold, terrible, unseen hands
Have dragged the cup from us;
We are distracted
As a poor goatherd of the Thracian hills
Robbed of his flocks and sun-tanned wife
By Scythian robbers,
Hurrying in anguish to the unfriendly town
As we to death.