My Beloved speaks profundities
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and pays dues not His own—
while I, the sober fool,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;stumble falsely drunk.

Though His wine warms my heart
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and sweetly stains my lips,
it is not potent in my veins—
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am not subject to it's dance.

I drink too little, too less
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;for the drunkard I claim to be.