The Rubaiyat still murmurs misty-sad
Of youth’s romantic dreams we all have had
And lost, along the years of laughter, love, and tears,
Like once-sweet wine fermenting bitter, bad.
Is mere self-pity poetry or art?
Fitzgerald thought so, and he squeezed the heart
Until he bled the pain that fell like wine-red rain,
Proud passion punctured by a poet’s dart.