Drawn blinds and flaring gas within,
And wine, and women, and cigars;
Without, the city’s heedless din;
Above, the white unheeding stars.
And we, alike from each remote,
The world that works, the heaven that waits,
Con our brief pleasures o’er by rote,
The favourite pastime of the Fates.
We smoke, to fancy that we dream,
And drink, a moment’s joy to prove,
And fain would love, and only seem
To love because we cannot love.
Draw back the blinds, put out the light:
‘Tis morning, let the daylight come.
God! how the women’s checks are white,
And how the sunlight strikes us dumb!