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!