Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,
Music and wine are one,
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos
talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when
it is man.
Quickend so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of me and mine!
Vine for vine be
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair;
Reason in Natures lotus drenchd
memory of ages quenchd
Give them again to shine;
Let wine repair what this undid;
the infection slid,
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the agàd prints,
And write my
old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and
IF the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanishd gods to me appear;
one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover
of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
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