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The Cast-Down Cup (1808-1893)

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.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2010




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