William Ernest Henley

Fill a glass with golden wine,
   And the while your lips are wet
Set your perfume unto mine,
       And forget.
Every kiss we take and give
Leaves us less of life to live.

Yet again!  Your whim and mine
In a happy while have met.
All your sweets to me resign,
       Nor regret
That we press with every breath,
Sighed or singing, nearer death.