In my brain there's a waving, flaming flood
Of forests, plains, mountains, and skies,
And a picture with outlines clearly defined
From out the wild chaos doth rise.

The hamlet that sweeps my fancy's eye
Is Godesberg. Once more,
I seem 'neath the linden's perfumed shade
To rest by the tavern-door.

My throat is parched as though I had quaffed
Yon sun that's sinking to rest;
Bring hither a flask of wine, sir host,
And let it be of your best!

Down flows the juice divine and floods
The soul with deep desires,
And with the flood, the thirst that burned
And parched my throat expires.

Another flask, sir host, I drank
The first in a reverie,
I paid no homage! oh, noble wine,
A pardon I crave of thee.

I gazed above at the Drachenfels
That mirrored in Rhine below,
With its legend-haunted castles rose
In the golden evening's glow.

I heard from afar the vintage song,
And the linnet's saucy gay note --
So I drank -- with never a thought for the wine,
And moistened, unheeded, my throat.

But now the glass to my nose I bring,
And earnestly gaze in the beaker
Of wine that I gulp; aye, and many a time
Without gazing I gulp down the liquor.

Yet strange! as I gulp down the generous wine,
It seems as though I were doubled;
As though another poor wight with myself
In union fraternal were coupled.

He looks such a pitiful, ailing elf,
So wan and so haggard his air,
Half in scorn, half in pain he meets my gaze--
'Tis strangely provoking, I swear.

The fellow affirms that 'tis I myself,
That we two are nought but one entity,
That we two are but one unfortunate wretch,
Fever-tossed -- and claims the identity:

Not in the tavern of Godesberg,
But in Paris, leagues away,
I lay stretched in the sick man's chamber of gloom --
Ah, pale face, thou liest, I say,

Thou liest! I am as ruddy and sound
As any fresh blooming rose;
Strong too am I, so, Friend, have a care
Lest my anger should turn to blows.

He shrugs his shoulders and sighs: "Oh, fool!"
This unbridled my wrath at last;
And down on this damnable second self
I showered the blows thick and fast.

Yet, strange, for every buffet that I
On the fellow in fury deal,
Seems to visit my own particular ribs,
For each thump, too, there rises a weal.

And all through this rascally buffeting,
My throat is reparched by the drouth,
And when I would call the host for wine,
The words, they stick fast in my mouth.

My senses swim; there's a whispering
Of poultices, as I awaken; --
A dessert-spoonful of the mixture, too,
Twelve drops every hour to be taken.