LXXI The Choice, I

Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die.
         Surely the earth, that's wise being very old,
         Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold
     Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I
     May pour for thee this golden wine, brim-high,
         Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold.
         We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours are toll'd,
     Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky.

     Now kiss, and think that there are really those,
       My own high-bosom'd beauty, who increase
           Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way!
           Through many years they toil; then on a day
       They die not,--for their life was death,--but cease;
   And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.