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.

I Cried For Madder Music And For Stronger Wine, But When The Feast Is Finished And The Lamps Expire, Then Falls Thy Shadow, Cynara! The Night Is Thine.

I Understand That Absinthe Makes The Tart Grow Fonder.