Tale of Archais

20 THE TALE OF ARCHAIS Ere the wine of perfect pleasure From a perfect chalice poured, Swells the veins with such a measure As the garden’s lord Makes his votaries dance to, death Draws with soft delicious breath To the maiden and the man. Love and life are both a span. Ere the crimson lips have planted Paler roses, warmer grapes, Ere the maiden breasts have panted, And the sunny shapes Flit around to bless the hour, Comes men know not what false flower : Ere the cup is drained, the wine Grows unsweet, that was divine. All the subtle airs are proven False at dewfall, at the dawn Sin and sorrow, interwoven, Like a veil are drawn Over love and all delight, Grey desires invade the white. Love and life are but a span ; Woe is me ! and woe is man !