Autumn Sunshine

 THE sun sets out the autumn crocuses

  And fills them up a pouring measure

  Of death-producing wine, till treasure

Runs waste down their chalices.

All, all Persephone's pale cups of mould

  Are on the board, are over-filled;

  The portion to the gods is spilled;

Now, mortals all, take hold!

The time is now, the wine-cup full and full

  Of lambent heaven, a pledging-cup;

  Let now all mortal men take up

The drink, and a long, strong pull.

Out of the hell-queen's cup, the heaven's pale wine—

  Drink then, invisible heroes, drink.

  Lips to the vessels, never shrink,

Throats to the heavens incline.

And take within the wine the god's great oath

  By heaven and earth and hellish stream

  To break this sick and nauseous dream

We writhe and lust in, both.

Swear, in the pale wine poured from the cups of the

       queen

  Of hell, to wake and be free

  From this nightmare we writhe in,

Break out of this foul has-been.

Waking from Drunken Sleep on a Spring Day

 

Life is a dream. No need to stir.

Remembering this I'm drunk all day.

Lying helpless beside the porch,

Waking to see the deep garden.

One bird calls among the flowers.

Ask myself what's the season?

Song of the oriole in Spring breezes,

Voice of beauty sadly moves me.

Is there wine? Ah, fill the cup.

Sing and watch the white moon rise,

until song's end and sense is gone.