Fill for me a brimming bowl, and in it let me drown my soul:
Nay, let some draught of vintage rare, with Lethean taste, all thoughts impair.
For I wish not for Cupid\'s fire, nor his arrows, nor his lyre,
But crave a potion, deep and wide, as that which flowed \'neath Lethe\'s tide.
Behold the empty vessel on the board, its silent hush awaiting night’s accord.
A moon of sorrow spreads its beams, conjures phantoms, wakes old dreams—
A cruel waltz in silver’d night, a phantom lost to even light.
Ah! The form most fair, but fleeting! A whisper soft, December greeting,
Etched in night\'s forgiving kill, a shadowed breath \'neath wind’s still.
Alas, my heart doth know no ease, her brightness brings nor balm, nor peace,
The gleaming eyes and bosom’s grace, turn well-lit world to hollow space.
No joy can books and muses give, in vain I seek their light to live.
Had she but known, and with sweet smile, unbound the chains of love’s beguile,
The tender sweetness of my grief, would flow in sorrow...