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Life was to us an amphora of wine

Pressed from full grapes

Upon the warm slopes of the Cyclades—

Wine that brings light

Into the gloomiest eyes of man,

Wine, cooled and mingled for eager lip.

We had but gazed upon the amphora,

Touching the figures painted on its flanks—

Achilles reining in his four great horses

Or Mænads dancing to a Faun's pipe.

We had but sipped the wine,

Watching its changing hue—

Deep purple in the shadowy amphora

But crimson where the light

Pierces the crystal cup.

And if we thought:

"True, the cup soon is emptied,

The amphora rings hollow

An our veins lack warmth and life"—

It did give us a gentle melancholy

Making our present joy more keen and clear.

But now

Cold, terrible, unseen hands

Have dragged the cup from us;