These are his dancing-girls, and drunk is he,
⁠Throned in the tavern, fear below his feet,
As wisely happy as a man may be.

To win this wisdom he hath given up
All worldly goods, his very drinking-cup
⁠Hath to the tavern-master humbly sold,—
Do thou the same, and join the wise who sup.

Only a breath divides belief from doubt,
'Tis muttered breath that makes a man devout,
⁠Yea, death from life only a breath divides—
O haste to drink before that breath is out.

You say, "There are so many crowns to win,
Yet you lie sunken in your sleepy sin";
⁠Bring me a crown of gold and big enough,
And I will wear it—all these are of tin.