Intoxication

WHAT is life, after all, but a dream,

And why should such pother be made?

Better far to be tipsy, I deem,

And doze all day long in the shade.

When I wake, and look out on the lawn,

I hear ’mid the flowers a bird sing;

I ask, “Is it evening, or dawn?”

The mango-bird whistles, “’Tis spring!”

O’erpower’d with the beautiful sight,

Another full goblet I pour,

And would sing till the moon rises bright—

But soon I’m as drunk as before.