40
Too oft was thy light
With strangers to take wine,
To suffer others light
Within the bowl to shine.
The orient wine-bearer
Hands thee the purple cup;
Drink! Let the drunkards air
From thy parched earth mount up!
The heart that knoweth well
The fever of desire
Moth-like will hover still
About the candles fire.
Sprinkle thy morning tears
Upon lifes desert plain;
New harvest scarce appears
Except thou sow thy grain.
Pass wine! Speak not to me
Of Europes tumult vast;
Caravans countlessly
That desolation passed.