The world is tospy—turvy; the stars are wildly spinning;
In every atom’s heart is the crash of the day of doom.

Some luminous beauty, mystic grace, has so enthralled them all,
Men of wisdom, men of faith, have lost their wisdom and faith

Thy power to create, O Lord, is veiled in reticence,
It awakens not all their urges even in holy men.

That same eternal ailment, that weakness of resolve,
O Cup—bearer! Its remedy lies in potent wine.