There is a thimble-full of spirit singing,
As I’m drinking in my hands leathered from
A day at work in factories.

Beside the bedside, lounging moons
Lick her outer edges clean:
My potion at the edge of sleep.

On my makeshift limbs it rests,
Too proud for teeters and a fall:
It waits as still as Styx.

I hate whiskey, yes, it’s true; and
Despise the Scotches from the isles;
Don’t catch me with a rye.

But if there’s one bright star in days
Of hapless hope, I’ll drink her now,
Before I everlasting dream.

For none is such a friend to death, so
Brightly sung: the water of life distilled
And raging bright, even through the

Weary constitution of the night.