Skip to main content
Ah, with the grape my fading life provide
and wash the body whence the life has died,
and lay me shrouded in the living leaf
in some festive garden by the riverside.
That even my buried ashes such a snare
of vintage shall fling up into the air
as not a true-believer passing by
but shall be overtaken unaware.
Indeed the idols I have loved so long
have done my credit in this world much wrong:
they drowned my glory in a shallow cup
and sold my reputation for a song.
Indeed, indeed, repentance oft before
I swore — but was I sober when I swore?
And then along came spring and, rose in hand,
my threadbare penitence apieces tore.
And much as wine has played the infidel
and robbed me of my robe of honor — well,
I often wonder if the vintners buy
one half so precious as the stuff they sell.