Poem by Richard Henry Stoddard

* * *

Day and night my thoughts incline
To the blandishments of wine:
Jars were made to drain, I think,
Wine, I know, was made to drink.

When I die (the day be far!),
Should the potters make a jar
Out of this poor clay of mine,
Let the jar be filled with wine!

1. How are Songs Begot and Bred?
2. The Sledge at the Gate
3. Adsum
4. It Never Comes Again
5. Lincoln's Birthday

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