It is outrageous that a strictly abstemious reader should sit in judgement on a poet a little drunk.
If many dread you, then beware of many.
Every stage of life has its troubles, and no man is content with his own age.
His monuments decay, and death comes even to his marbles and his names.
O maid, while youth is with the rose and thee, Pluck thou the rose: life is as swift for thee.
So many lovely things, so rare, so young, A day begat them, and a day will end.
They wander in deep woods, in mournful light, Amid long reeds and drowsy headed poppies And lakes where no wave laps, and voiceless streams, Upon whose banks in the dim light grow old Flowers that were once bewaild names of kings.
I've never written for a fasting man; A taste of wine is good before my verse. But sleep is better than a little wine, For when sleeping one thinks my songs are dreams.