Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
The ChoiceDante Gabriel Rossetti (18281882)
E
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.
My own high-bosomed beauty, who increase
Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way!
Through many years they toil; then comes a day
They die not,—never having lived,—but cease;
And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.