Andrew Macphail (1864–1938)

I, FROM whose heart young Love is long time gone

Beyond recall,—and in his secret place

Dull Sorrow soothes with sad, averted face

Her restless sister Pain with visage wan,

Handmaidens of the shadow-footed One

Who comes more slowly than the season’s pace

Creeping around the year,—I wish you grace,

As you stand glorious in life’s morning sun.

Your blood-red lips are eager at the brim

Of that deep cup, now amply poured for you.

Drink with closed eyes, nor look upon the lees

They only quaff whose joys are memories.

Drink of the bubbles sparkling at the rim,

The dregs are bitter, and your hours are few.