War and Love/The Wine-Cup
THE WINE-CUP
Life was to us an amphora of winePressed from full grapesUpon the warm slopes of the Cyclades—Wine that brings lightInto 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 horsesOr Mænads dancing to a Faun's pipe.
We had but sipped the wine,Watching its changing hue—Deep purple in the shadowy amphoraBut crimson where the lightPierces the crystal cup.
And if we thought:"True, the cup soon is emptied,The amphora rings hollowAn our veins lack warmth and life"—It did give us a gentle melancholyMaking our present joy more keen and clear.
But nowCold, terrible, unseen handsHave dragged the cup from us; We are distractedAs a poor goatherd of the Thracian hillsRobbed of his flocks and sun-tanned wifeBy Scythian robbers,Hurrying in anguish to the unfriendly townAs we to death.