32 Song

WE break the glass, whose sacred wine

To some beloved health we drain,

Lest future pledges, less divine,

Should e’er the hallowed toy profane;

And thus I broke a heart, that poured

Its tide of feelings out for thee,

In draughts, by after-times deplored,

Yet dear to memory.

But still the old, empassioned ways

And habits of my mind remain,

And still unhappy light displays

Thine image chambered in my brain,

And still it looks as when the hours

Went by like flights of singing birds,

Or that soft chain of spoken flowers,

And airy gems, thy words.