I set apart a sacred day and hour,
And gathered up my friendships unto me;
Of all that has been, is, must ever be
The richest fruitage of life's purple dower.
As one who holds a draught from Tuscan vine,
That burns like some strange jewel on the lees,
That brims, and trembles over, and he sees
His own heart-beating has o'er-spilled the wine,
So I my slender flagon holding up
In Memory's light, as best to makr its glow,
With quivering sobs erewhile did overflow,
And mix with falling tears my brimming cup.
For oh, that wine of friendship was distilled
From life's warm vineyard, sloping to the sun!
With richer juices than again will run,
Oh, her red winepress trodden was, and filled!
One spring of youth have we. When that is o'er,
And summer's fleeting dream, then, dear my friends,
Our autumn days run on to wintry ends,
Whose breath is chill. Lo, Age is at the door!
