by Frank Dempster Sherman
Unto his parching lips a cup
Brimming with wine the hills hold up,
Fresh with the breath of bud and bloom,
Cooled in the caves of purple gloom.
One long, deep draught he takes, and then
Into his saddle leaps again,
Scatters the gold coins left and right,
And speeds beyond the gates of night:
The Years are at his heels, — away!
The Sun still leads them by a day.
Source:Lyrics For A Lute
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin, and Company