Concerning Brewer Walt

Her lies poor Walt,
He brewed good malt,
His only fault.

by Johan Herman Wessel.

Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson, Brewer

HERE Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,
And empty all his barrels:
He's blest—if, as he brew'd, he drink,
In upright, honest morals.

by Robert Burns.

Cups Without Wine

Cups without wine are low things
Like a pot thrown to the ground,
But brimming with the juice, they shine
Like body and soul.

Translated by Robert Mezey

by Yehudah HaLevi.

Drinking, I sit,
Lost to Night,
Keep falling petals
From the ground:
Get up to follow
The stream’s white moon,
No sign of birds,
The humans gone.

by Li Po.

To Our Lord, Upon The Water Made Wine

Thou water turn'st to wine, fair friend of life,
Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of thy reign,
Distills from thence the tears of wrath and strife,
And so turns wine to water back again.

by Richard Crashaw.

Divine Epigrams: To Our Lord, Upon The Water Made Wine

Thou water turn'st to wine, fair friend of life,
Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of thy reign,
Distills from thence the tears of wrath and strife,
And so turns wine to water back again.

by Richard Crashaw.

Give Me Women, Wine, And Snuff

GIVE me women, wine, and snuff
Untill I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection:
For, bless my beard, they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

by John Keats.

Impossibility, Like Wine

838

Impossibility, like Wine
Exhilarates the Man
Who tastes it; Possibility
Is flavorless—Combine

A Chance's faintest Tincture
And in the former Dram
Enchantment makes ingredient
As certainly as Doom—

by Emily Dickinson.

The wine of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:

Sits long and arises drunken,
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great, rich Vine.

by James Thomson.

The People Have Drunk The Wine Of Peace

The people have drunk the wine of peace
In the streets of town.
They smile as they drift with hearts at rest
Uphill and down.
The people have drunk the wine of peace,
They are mad with joy.
Never again need they lie and fear
Death for a boy.

by Lesbia Harford.

I CANNOT die, who drank delight
From the cup of the crescent moon,
And hungrily as men eat bread,
Loved the scented nights of June.
The rest may die—but is there not
Some shining strange escape for me
Who sought in Beauty the bright wine
Of immortality?

by Sara Teasdale.

The Wine of Love

THE wine of Love is music,
   And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
   Love sits long:

Sits long and arises drunken,
   But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
   That great, rich Vine.

by James Thomson.

To Dr. Mead, On His Cape Wine.

Your Wine, by Southern Suns refin'd,
Is a just Emblem of your Mind:
Like You, the gen'rous Juice displays
Its Influence a thousand Ways;
Like You, it raises sinking Hearts,
Inspiring, and rewarding Arts;
Dispels the Spleen, and conquers Pain,
Calls back departing Life again.

by Mary Barber.

The Solitude Of Night

It was at a wine party—
I lay in a drowse, knowing it not.
The blown flowers fell and filled my lap.
When I arose, still drunken,
The birds had all gone to their nests,
And there remained but few of my comrades.
I went along the river—alone in the moonlight.

TRANSLATED BY SHIGEYOSHI OBATA

by Li Po.

Parting At A Wine-Shop In Nan-King

A wind, bringing willow-cotton, sweetens the shop,
And a girl from Wu, pouring wine, urges me to share it.
With my comrades of the city who are here to see me off;
And as each of them drains his cup, I say to him in parting,
Oh, go and ask this river running to the east
If it can travel farther than a friend's love!

by Li Po.

Song. Love, Like Cordial Wine

Love, like cordial wine,
Pouring his soul in mine,
Bids me to sing;
Youth's bright glory snatch,
And Time's paces match
With fearless wing.

Now, while breath is bliss,
And dawn wakes me with a kiss,
Ere this rapture flee,
Ere my heart thou claim,
Sorrow, I will aim
A shaft at thee.

by Robert Laurence Binyon.

Settle home in person place
But no cart horse noise
Ask gentleman how able so
Heart far place self partial
Pluck chrysanthemum east hedge down
Leisurely look south mountain
Mountain air day night beautiful
Fly birds together return
This here have clear meaning
Wish argue already neglect speech

by Tao Qian.

Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper

HERE lies Johnie Pigeon;
What was his religion?
Whae'er desires to ken,
To some other warl'
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!


Strong ale was ablution,
Small beer persecution,
A dram was memento mori;
But a full-flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.

by Robert Burns.

When the last rousing gallop is ended,
And the last post-and-rall has been jumped,
And a cracked neck that cannot be mended
Shall have under the yew-tree been 'dumped',
Just you leave him alone-in God's acre -
And drink, in wine, whisky or beer:
'May the saints tip above send 'The Breaker'
A horse like good old Cavalier!

by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant.

Fill A Glass With Golden Wine

Fill a glass with golden wine,
And the while your lips are wet
Set your perfume unto mine,
And forget.
Every kiss we take and give
Leaves us less of life to live.

Yet again! Your whim and mine
In a happy while have met.
All your sweets to me resign,
Nor regret
That we press with every breath,
Sighed or singing, nearer death.

by William Ernest Henley.

The Nut-Brown Ale

THE nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!
The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger
Will make a sighing man a singer.
Ale gives a buffet in the head,
But ginger under-props the brain;
When ale would strike a strong man dead
Then nutmeg tempers it again.
The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!

by John Marston.

This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
Down alleyways of dreams

This is a wine that must flow on
Not caring how or where
So it has ways to flow upon
Where song is in the air.

So it can woo an artful flute
With loose elastic lips
Its measurements of joy compute
With blithe, ecstatic hips.

by Countee Cullen.

Tz'U No. 2 (Wine Joy)

To the tune "As in a Dream"

I have long remembered
the pavilion
on the stream
the falling sun
so deep in wine
we did not know
the way home
how pleasure spent
late returning
the skiff
thoughtless
entered
a lotus deep place
and struggling through
struggling through
we scared up
from the sand
gulls and herons.

by Li Ching Chao.

Today Space is fine!
Like a horse mount this wine,
without bridle, spurs, bit,
for a heaven divine!
We, two angels they torture
with merciless fever,
will this mirage pursue
in the day’s crystal blue!
Sweetly balanced, fly higher
through the whirlwind’s wise air
in our mirrored desire,
my sister, swim there
without rest or respite
to my dream paradise!

by Charles Baudelaire.

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.

by Li Po.

Wine Of The Fairies

I am drunk with the honey wine
Of the moon-unfolded eglantine,
Which fairies catch in hyacinth bowls.
The bats, the dormice, and the moles
Sleep in the walls or under the sward
Of the desolate castle yard;
And when ’tis spilt on the summer earth
Or its fumes arise among the dew,
Their jocund dreams are full of mirth,
They gibber their joy in sleep; for few
Of the fairies bear those bowls so new!

by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

When Grapes Turn To Wine

When grapes turn
to wine, they long for our ability to change.

When stars wheel
around the North Pole,
they are longing for our growing consciousness.

Wine got drunk with us,
not the other way.
The body developed out of us, not we from it.

We are bees,
and our body is a honeycomb.
We made
the body, cell by cell we made it.



translated by Robert Bly

by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi.

Drunken Coachman

Unwashed
Drinks:
Mother-of-pearl
Sees:
Bitter
Law,
Carriage
Falls!

Woman
Tumbles:
Loin

Bleeds:
- Whimpers!
Outcry.


Original French


Cocher ivre


Pouacre
Boit :
Nacre
Voit :

Acre
Loi,
Fiacre
Choit !

Femme
Tombe :
Lombe

Saigne :
- Clame !
Geigne.

by Arthur Rimbaud.

I Am Athirst, But Not For Wine

I am athirst, but not for wine;
The drink I long for is divine,
Poured only from your eyes in mine.

I hunger, but the bread I want,
Of which my blood and brain are scant,
Is your sweet speech, for which I pant.

I am a-cold, and lagging lame,
Life creeps along my languid frame;
Your love would fan it into flame.

Heaven's in that little word--your love!
It makes my heart coo like a dove,
My tears fall as I think thereof.

by Mathilde Blind.

The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,
It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies,
And purple, like the blood of elderberries.
Surely it is a strong wine - juice distilled of the fierce iron.
I am drunk of its fumes.
I feel its fiery flux
Diffusing, permeating,
Working some strange alchemy…
So that I turn aside from the goodly board,
So that I look askance upon the common cup,
And from the mouths of crucibles
Suck forth the acrid sap.

by Lola Ridge.

A Drunken Man's Praise Of Sobriety

COME swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.

Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.

by William Butler Yeats.

We Went Out Of Our Minds With The Easy Life

We went out of our minds with the easy life,
Wine from morning on, hungover by evening,
How can I keep this idle gaiety,
Your blush, O drunken plague?

An agonizing ceremony in a handshake,
Nocturnal kisses on the streets,
While the currents of speech grow heavy,
And lanterns burn like torches.

We wait for death, like the fairytale wolf,
But I'm afraid that the first to die will be
The one with the anxious red mouth
And the forelock covering his eyes.

by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam.

Craftsmen Of Wine Bowls

On this wine bowl—pure silver,
made for the house of Herakleidis,
where good taste is the rule—
notice these graceful flowers, the streams, the thyme.
In the center I put this beautiful young man,
naked, erotic, one leg still dangling
in the water. O memory, I begged
for you to help me most in making
the young face I loved appear the way it was.
This proved very difficult because
some fifteen years have gone by since the day
he died as a soldier in the defeat at Magnesia.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

Song—guid Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon

Chorus—O gude ale comes and gude ale goes;
Gude ale gars me sell my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon—
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon!


I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh,
And they drew a' weel eneugh:
I sell'd them a' just ane by ane—
Gude ale keeps the heart aboon!
O gude ale comes, &c.


Gude ale hauds me bare and busy,
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie,
Stand i' the stool when I hae done—
Gude ale keeps the heart aboon!
O gude ale comes, &c.

by Robert Burns.

I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When the landlord turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

by Emily Dickinson.

With The Young Wine

Sun sets purple,

Swallow has already flown far off.

Under arches in the evening

New wine goes round;

Snow falls behind the mountain.

Summer's last green drifts away,

Hunter comes from the forest.

Under arches in the evening

New wine goes round;

Snow falls behind the mountain.

Bat blows around the forehead,

A stranger comes silently.

Under arches in the evening

New wine goes round;

Snow falls behind the mountain.

by Georg Trakl.

“White folks is white,” says uncle Jim;
“A platitude,” I sneer;
And then I tell him so is milk,
And the froth upon his beer.

His heart walled up with bitterness,
He smokes his pungent pipe,
And nods at me as if to say,
“Young fool, you’ll soon be ripe!”

I have a friend who eats his heart
Always with grief of mine,
Who drinks my joy as tipplers drain
Deep goblets filled with wine.

I wonder why here at his side,
Face-in-the-grass with him,
My mind should stray the Grecian urn
To muse on uncle Jim.

by Countee Cullen.

I Drink No Ordinary Wine

I drink no ordinary wine,
but Wine of Everlasting Bliss,
As I repeat my Mother Kali's name;
It so intoxicates my mind that people take me to be drunk!
First my guru gives molasses for the making of the Wine;
My longing is the ferment to transform it.
Knowledge, the maker of the Wine,
prepares it for me then;
And when it is done,
my mind imbibes it from the bottle of the mantra,
Taking the Mother's name to make it pure.
Drink of this Wine, says Ramprasad,
and the four fruits of life are yours.

[Translated by Elizabeth U. Harding]

by Ramprasad Sen.

Before The Cask Of Wine

The spring wind comes from the east and quickly passes,
Leaving faint ripples in the wine of the golden bowl.
The flowers fall, flake after flake, myriads together.

You, pretty girl, wine-flushed,
Your rosy face is rosier still.
How long may the peach and plum trees flower
By the green-painted house?
The fleeting light deceives man,
Brings soon the stumbling age.

Rise and dance
In the westering sun
While the urge of youthful years is yet unsubdued!
What avails to lament after one's hair has turned white
like silken threads?

by Li Po.

Gently stir and blow the fire,
Lay the mutton down to roast,
Dress it quickly, I desire,
In the dripping put a toast,
That I hunger may remove --
Mutton is the meat I love.
On the dresser see it lie;
Oh, the charming white and red;
Finer meat ne'er met the eye,
On the sweetest grass it fed:
Let the jack go swiftly round,
Let me have it nice and brown'd.
On the table spread the cloth,
Let the knives be sharp and clean,
Pickles get and salad both,
Let them each be fresh and green.
With small beer, good ale and wine,
Oh ye gods! how I shall dine.

by Jonathan Swift.