Wreathe the bowl by Thomas Moore.

Part 3 of 3.

Say

, why did Time
His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine he knew
Runs brisker through,
And sparkles far more brightly?
Oh, lend it us,
And, smiling thus,
The glass in two we ’d sever,
Make pleasure glide
In double tide,
And fill both ends for ever!
Then wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
We ’ll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!