Here's Looking

Here's looking
at you, dear!
though I should pour
A sea of wine,
my eyes would
thirst for more.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

The Hippopotamus.

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Jinn

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Ignace Jan Paderewski

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

John Drew

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

William Butler Yeats

To Ladies' Eyes.

To Ladies' eyes around, boy,
    We can't refuse, we can't refuse,
Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy,
    'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose.
For thick as stars that lighten
    Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers,
The countless eyes that brighten
    This earth of ours, this earth of ours.
But fill the cup--where'er, boy,
    Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,
We're sure to find Love there, boy,
    So drink them all! so drink them all!

Some looks there are so holy,
    They seem but given, they seem but given,
As shining beacons, solely,
    To light to heaven, to light to heaven.
While some--oh! ne'er believe them--
    With tempting ray, with tempting ray,
Would lead us (God forgive them!)
    The other way, the other way.

Thomas Moore

A Song Of Other Days

As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet
Breathes soft the Alpine rose,
So through life's desert springing sweet
The flower of friendship grows;
And as where'er the roses grow
Some rain or dew descends,
'T is nature's law that wine should flow
To wet the lips of friends.
Then once again, before we part,
My empty glass shall ring;
And he that has the warmest heart
Shall loudest laugh and sing.

They say we were not born to eat;
But gray-haired sages think
It means, Be moderate in your meat,
And partly live to drink.
For baser tribes the rivers flow
That know not wine or song;
Man wants but little drink below,
But wants that little strong.
Then once again, etc.

If one bright drop is like the gem
That decks a monarch's crown,

Oliver Wendell Holmes

To The Waiter

We drink your health, O Waiter!
And may you be preserved
From old age, gout, or sudden death!--
At least till supper's served.

Oliver Herford

Mare Rubrum

1858

Flash out a stream of blood-red wine,
For I would drink to other days,
And brighter shall their memory shine,
Seen flaming through its crimson blaze!
The roses die, the summers fade,
But every ghost of boyhood's dream
By nature's magic power is laid
To sleep beneath this blood-red stream!

It filled the purple grapes that lay,
And drank the splendors of the sun,
Where the long summer's cloudless day
Is mirrored in the broad Garonne;
It pictures still the bacchant shapes
That saw their hoarded sunlight shed, -
The maidens dancing on the grapes, -
Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.

Beneath these waves of crimson lie,
In rosy fetters prisoned fast,
Those flitting shapes that never die, -
The swift-winged visions o...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

A Draught Of Sunshine

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
Away with old Hock and madeira,
Too earthly ye are for my sport;
There's a beverage brighter and clearer.
Instead of a piriful rummer,
My wine overbrims a whole summer;
My bowl is the sky,
And I drink at my eye,
Till I feel in the brain
A Delphian pain
Then follow, my Caius! then follow:
On the green of the hill
We will drink our fill
Of golden sunshine,
Till our brains intertwine
With the glory and grace of Apollo!
God of the Meridian,
And of the East and West,
To thee my soul is flown,
And my body is earthward press'd.
It is an awful mission,
A terrible division;
And leaves a gulph austere
To be fill'd with worldly fear.
Aye, when the soul is fled
To high above our head,
Affr...

John Keats