I

Sweet oblivion, blood of grape,
Let me take thy hue and shape!
Flood this heavy heart of mine!
Turn it into ruddy wine!
Through my veins, with golden glow,
Airy spirit, flash and flow!
Deify this clod of clay!
Waft my willing soul away!

II

Dark and sad my fancies are —
Tired of peace and tired of war.
Joke of jester, prank of clown,
Weigh my heavy eyelids down.
All philosophies are drear;
Music's jargon in my ear;
Endless tides of empty talk
Babble round me where I walk;
I am deafened by the din
That the world is wrangling in.

III

Prince of sunrise, fiery wine,
Let me lose my soul in thine!
Close my eyes and stop my ears
To all a mortal sees or hears: —
Roll of drums, and clash of swords,
Fretful snarl of angry words,
Church, and State, and bond, and free,
Party, creed, and policy,
Tattle, prattle, laugh, and groan,
Crozier, sceptre, flag, and throne,
Garrulous and grand debate
Which of moles is small or great,
Whom to pray for, who shall pray,
And what agile critics say.

IV

Sun of rubies, radiant wine,
Melt my being into thine!
So my dream of death shall bless
Memory with forgetfulness.
No more weary, wasting thought
On a past so folly-fraught!
No more dreams of love-lit eyes,
Silken hair and tender sighs,
And wild kisses sweet, that shake
The frame of being! — poor mistake!
Nor that other, just as poor, —
Toil for praise of sage or boor:
Fire, that burnishes a crown,
Fire, that burns a kingdom down,
Fire, that ravages his breast
Who takes ambition for its guest!
But at last, instead of these,
Sunset cloud and evening breeze,
Holy starlight shining dim,
Organ wail and vesper hymn,
Cypress wreath and asphodels,
Gentle toll of distant bells, —
All that makes the sleeper blest
In a bed of endless rest.

V

When this farce of life is o'er,
Are we fretted any more?
Do they rest, I'd like to know,
Under grass or under snow,
Who have gone that silent way
You and I must go, some day?
If they do, it seems to me
Happy were it thus to be
Sleeping where the violets grow,
And the bramble-roses blow,
And the sunshine pours its gold
On mossy rock and woodland old,
While gentle winds, and clouds of fleece,
And rippling waters whisper — peace!

VI

Vain the fancy: nothing dies:
Falling water falls to rise;
Round and round the atoms fly, —
Turf, and stone, and sea, and sky,
Vapor-drop and blood of man, —
In the inexorable plan.
All is motion: nothing dies:
Mystery of mysteries!

VII

Royal road of blest escape!
Sweet oblivion, blood of grape,
Let me take thy hue and shape!
In thy spirit floating free,
I shall be a reverie,
A flitting thought, a fading dream,
A melting cloud, a faint moonbeam,
A breath, a mist, a ghost of light,
To rise and vanish in the night, —
Unseeing all, by all unseen,
And being as I had not been.