| Ah, my beloved, fill the Cup that clears
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| Today of past regrets and future Fears-
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| Tomorrow? |
| — Why, Tomorrow I may be Myself with Yesterday’s Seven Thousand Years.
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| Lo! |
| some we loved, the loveliest and best
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| That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
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| Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
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| And one by one crept silently to Rest.
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| And we, that now make merry in the Room
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| They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
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| Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
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| Descend, ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?
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| Ah.make the most of what we yet may spend,
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| Before we too into the dust descend;
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| Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
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| Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!
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| Ah, fill the Cup:-what boots it to repeat
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| How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
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| Unborn Tomorrow, and dead Yesterday
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| Why fret about them if Today be sweet!
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| Wilderness
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| Paradise |