Saw you the youth, with the face like the morning, <br />Refilling the glass, that foamed white as the sea? <br />Heard you the words that fell down like a warning, <br />'Lift not the glass: it holds sorrow for thee'? <br />He heeds not nor listens: <br />The red liquor glistens, <br />And he sees not the fangs of the serpent beneath. <br />And the fiends are elated, <br />And the voice waileth 'Fated,' <br />As he drains out the glass: the dumb agent of death. <br /> <br /> <br />High had he set his mark. Fame, wealth, and glory, <br />All should be his ere the noon-tide of life. <br />A name that should live in the annals of story, <br />His was a heart that could battle with strife. <br />'Here's to youthful endeavor!' <br />He cries. 'Ah! for ever <br />Shall the ruddy glass cheer me on life's rugged way. <br />There is strength for all trouble <br />In each airy bubble. <br />Who dares prate of danger and sorrow, I pray?' <br /> <br /> <br />Where is the youth with the face like the morning? <br />Where are the hopes that glowed bright as the noon! <br />He who had heard and obeyed not the warning, <br />Oh! has he reaped the dire harvest so soon? <br />He quaffed, all unheeding <br />The small voice's pleading, <br />And he lieth to-night in a dark prison cell. <br />This is his glory, <br />The name carved in story. <br />This has the red glass done. Say, is it well?<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/is-it-well/
