Tonight, One Poem

Beer,
by George Arnold

     HERE,
     With my beer
     I sit,
     While golden moments flit:
     Alas!
     They pass
     Unheeded by:
     And, as they fly,
     I,
     Being dry,
     Sit, idly sipping here
     My beer.
     O, finer far
     Than fame, or riches, are
     The graceful smoke-wreathes of this cigar!
     Why
     Should I
     Weep, wail, or sigh?
     What if luck has passed me by?
     What if my hopes are dead,—
     My pleasures fled?
     Have I not still
     My fill
     Of right good cheer,—
     Cigars and beer.
     Go, whining youth,
     Forsooth!
     Go, weep and wail,
     Sigh and grow pale,
        Weave melancholy rhymes
        On the old times,
     Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,
     But leave me to my beer!
        Gold is dross,—
        Love is loss,—
     So, if I gulp my sorrows down,
     Or see them drown
     In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,
     Then do wear the crown,
        Without the cross!