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 !