I Filled To Thee, To Thee I Drank, I Nothing Did But Drink And Fill; The Bowl By Turns Was Bright And Blank, 'Twas Drinking, Filling, Drinking Still. At Length I Bade An Artist Paint Thy Image In This Ample Cup, That I Might See The Dimpled Saint, To Whom I Quaffed My Nectar Up. Behold, How Bright That Purple Lip Now Blushes Through The Wave At Me; Every Roseate Drop I Sip Is Just Like Kissing Wine From Thee. And Still I Drink The More For This; For, Ever When The Draught I Drain, Thy Lip Invites Another Kiss, And--In The Nectar Flows Again. So, Here'S To Thee, My Gentle Dear, And May That Eyelid Never Shine Beneath A Darker, Bitterer Tear Than Bathes It In This Bowl Of Mine!