That he filleth at morning with wine,
With the warm, strong wine is his might
From the vintage of gold and to light,
Fills it, and makes it divine.
And at the night when his journey is done,
At hte gate of his radiant hall,
He setteth his lips to the brim,
With a long last look of his eye,
And lifts it and draineth it dry,
drain till he leaveth ai all
Empty and hollow and dim.
And the, as he passes to sleep,
Still full of the feast that he did,
Long ago in Olympian wars,
He closes it down with the seep
Of its slow-turning luminous lid,
Its cover of darkness and stars,
Wrought once by hepahaestus of old
With violet and vastness and gold
Author: Archibald Lampman
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