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So when that angel of the darker drink
at last shall find you by the river brink,
and, proffering a cup, invites your soul
to step up for a sip — you shall not shrink.
Why, if the soul can fling the dust aside,
and naked on the air of Heaven ride,
is it not a shame, a horrid shame
in this clay carcass crippled to abide?
'Tis but a tent where takes his one day's rest
a sultan to the realm of death addressed;
the camp is struck, the sultan rides away
to points unknown to fill some lord’s request.
And fear not lest existence, closing your
account and mine should know the like no more;
the eternal wineman from his jug has poured
billions of bubbles like us, and continues to pour.
When you and I behind the veil are passed
for as long thereafter as the world shall last,
the world will recall our visit about as much
as the ocean feels a tiny pebble cast.