After Supping With A Poet

You called your mystic draught Canary sack—
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas,
And heard the wraiths of vagrant melodies;
And Joys and Hopes from some dim shade came back.

What blithe feet walked upon a grass-grown track!
What glad winds gossiped under summer trees!
You called your mystic draught Canary sack—
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas.

This wine, from strange grapes pressed, upon my track
Lets loose the band of Ancient Memories:
Now this sole cup my waywardness can please;
All other brews some fine distinction lack—
You called your magic draught Canary sack!
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