I Understand That Absinthe Makes The Tart

They Are Not Long, The Days Of Wine And Roses. Out Of A Misty Dream, Our Path Emerges For A While, Then Closes, Within A Dream.

Last Night, Ah, Yesternight, Betwixt Her Lips And Mine There Fell Thy Shadow, Cynara! Thy Breath Was Shed Upon My Soul Between The Kisses And The Wine; And I Was Desolate And Sick Of An Old Passion, Yea, I Was Desolate And Bowed My Head: I Have Been Faithful To Thee, Cynara! In My Fashion.

I Cried For Madder Music And For Stronger Wine.

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 Weeping And The Laughter. Love And Desire And Hate; I Think They Have No Portion In Us After We Pass The Gate.