Edward Coate Pinkney (1802–1828)

WE break the glass, whose sacred wine

To some beloved health we drain,

Lest future pledges, less divine,

Should e’er the hallow’d toy profane;

And thus I broke a heart that poured

Its tide of feeling out for thee,

In draughts, by after-times deplored,

Yet dear to memory.

But still the old impassion’d ways

And habits of my mind remain,

And still unhappy light displays

Thine image chamber’d in my brain.

And still it looks as when the hours

Went by like flights of singing birds,

On that soft chain of spoken flowers,

And airy gems, thy words.