The Question

Glad with the wine of life, Reeling I go my way, Drunk with the ache of living And mouthing my drunken song! Then comes the lucid moment And the shadow across the lintel; And I hear the ghostly whisper, And I glimpse with startled eyes The Door beyond the doorway, And I see the small dark house Where I must sleep.

Then song turns sour on my lips, And the warmth goes out of my blood, And I turn me back to the beaker, And re-draining my cup of dream, I drown the whispering voices, I banish the ghostly question As to which in the end is true: The wine and the open road? Or the waiting Door?