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And every rood, in that foul wine,
I pledged his fate: he drank to mine.
"What comfort has thou?" suddenly
To me my phantom comrade saith.
"I know," said I, "where'er I lie,
The end of each man's road is death.
I pray that I may find it soon;
I weary of night's changeless moon."
Then, in such lays of hideous mirth
As never tainted human breath,
He cursed all things of human worth--
Made mock of life and scorn of death.
"Art weary?" quoth he; and said I:
"Fain here to lay me down and die."
"Then join," he saith, "my roundelay;
Curse God and die, and make an end.
Fled is thine hope, and done thy day;
The fleshworm is thine only friend.
Thy mouth is fouled, and he, I ween,
Alone can scour thy palate clean."
I said: "I justify the rod;
I claim its heaviest stripe mine own.
Did justice cease to dwell with God,
Then God were toppled from His throne!
Fill up thy chalice to the brink--
Thy bitterest, and I will drink."
With looks like any devil's grim,
He poured the brewage till it ran
With fetid horror at the brim.


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