WHEN I was young how fair the skies, br Such folly of cloud, such blue depths wise, br Such dews of morn, such calms of eve, br So many the lure and the reprieve-- br Life seemed a toy to break and mend br And make a charm of in the end. br br Then slowly all the dew dried up br And only dust lay in the cup; br And since, to slake his thirst, man must, br I sought a cup that had no dust, br And found it at the Goat and Vine-- br Mingled of brandy, beer and wine. br br The goat-cup, straight, drew down the skies br And lit them in lunatick wise: br What had been rose went scarlet red, br And the pearl tints grew like the dead. br And the fresh primrose of the morn br Was the wet red of rain-spoiled corn. br br Now, with a head that aches and nods br I hold weak hands out to the gods; br And oh! forgiving gods and kind, br They give me healing to my mind, br And show me once again the lawn br Green and clear-gemmed with dews of dawn. br br O gods, who look down from above br Upon our tangle of lust and love, br And, in your purity, perceive br The worth of what our follies leave: br Give us but this, and sink the rest-- br To know that dew and dawn are best.