I Understand That Absinthe Makes The Tart

I Cried For Madder Music And For Stronger Wine, But When The Feast Is Finished And The Lamps Expire, Then Falls Thy Shadow, Cynara! The Night Is Thine.

Pale Amber Sunlight Falls Across The Reddening October Trees.... Are We Not Better And At Home In Dreamful Autumn, We Who Deem No Harvest Joy Is Worth A Dream? A Little While And Night Shall Come, A Little While, Then, Let Us Dream.

They Are Not Long, The Days Of Wine And Roses.

They Are Not Long, The Weeping And The Laughter. Love And Desire And Hate; I Think They Have No Portion In Us After We Pass The Gate.

I Understand That Absinthe Makes The Tart Grow Fonder.