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 The sixtieth cup makes me so wise with wine,

A thousand riddles clear as crystal shine,

And much I wonder what it can have been

That used to puzzle this poor head of mine.

Yet with the morn, the wine-deserted brain

Sees all its riddles trooping back again;

Say, am I sober when I see nought clear?

And am I drunk when I see all things plain?

When I am drunk the sky of life is clear,

And I gaze into it without a fear,

As I grow sober horribly I dread

The shadows of my vultures drawing near.

And, as I drink, up through my brain there grows

The thornless image of a magic rose,

Whereto comes singing sweet a nightingale—

The wine-rose fades, and the brown wine-bird goes.