IF

by: William Dean Howells (1837-1920)

ES, death is at the bottom of the cup,

And every one that lives must drink it up;

And yet between the sparkle at the top

And the black lees where lurks the bitter drop,

There swims enough good liquor, Heaven knows,

To ease our hearts of all their other woes.

 

The bubbles rise in sunshine at the brim;

That drop below is very far and dim;

The quick fumes spread, and shape us such bright dreams

That in the glad delirium it seems

As though by some deft sleight, if so we willed,

That drop untasted might be somehow spilled.

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