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 Awake! my soul, and haste betimes to drink,

This sun that rises all too soon shall sink,—

Come, come, O vintner, ope thy drowsy door!

We die of thirst upon the fountain's brink.

Poor homeless men that have no other home,

Unto the wine-shop early are we come,

Since darkling dawn have we been waiting here,

Waiting and waiting for the day to come.

For some have love, some gold, and some have fame,

But we have nothing, least of all a name,

Nothing but wine, yet ah! how much to say,

Nothing but wine—yet happy all the same.

Youth, like a magic bird, has flown away,

He sang a little morning-hour in May,

Sang to the Rose, his love, that too is gone—

Whither is more than you or I can say.