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 O have you deemed, who looked on us with scorn,

Poor drunkards, dreaming-drunk from morn to morn,

Our raiment stained, our reputation gone,

That all our heart is grape or barley-corn?

Within the haunted wine-cup more than wine

It is that makes a mortal man divine,

We seek a drink more deadly and more strange

Than ever grew on any earthly vine.

The wine-cup is the little silver well

Where Truth, if Truth there be, doth ever dwell;

Death too is there,—and Death who would not seek?—

And Love that in itself is Heaven and Hell.

The wine-cup is a wistful magic glass,

Wherein all day old faces smile and pass,

Dead lips press ours upon its scented brim,

Old voices whisper many a sweet 'alas!'