LVII.
Ah, by my Computations, People say,
Reduce the Year to better reckoning?—Nay,
’Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.
LVIII.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and ’twas—the Grape!