Wine and Death

On tender grass, neath a laurel-tree,
Who listeth to lie and drink with me?
Boy-Cupid shall come, and girding up
His light-blown robe with a hempen string
Or flax to his naked loins, shall bring
The wine, and bear my cup.

The life of man is a fleeting breath,
From day to day it evanisheth
Like breaking waves that roll to the shore.
Death's hour comes on. . . and our tomb shall keep
Nothing of us, save a nameless heap
Of little bones — no more.

I care not for custom, that bids perfume
With spices and balm my new-made tomb
And pour sweet odors, and incense shed.
But while I'm living, it is my will
To bathe in fragrance, and drink my fill,
And crown with flowers my head.

I'll name myself for my heir, I vow,
And spend the heritage here and now!
Who lives for others seeks foolish cares.
Mad is the pelican, pouring free
His blood for his children. Mad is he
Who saves his goods for his heirs!