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 This imbecile hath broke the cheer;

But day is distant yet,

And ere her joyless flags appear,

We'll pay mad pleasure's debt.

Drink to all revels—foes to thought!

Drink, drink to poppy-trances deep!

And since from some sleep holds aloof,

To oblivion drink!—the dreamless sleep.

Again that sound affronts the air!

Ill-omened wretch, proclaim thy care—

My soul thy pallor hates!

What hounds thee back? Whence, whence this din?

The stranger? He hath passed the gates—

And waiteth there—within?