My cup runneth over

Wherefore drink with me, friends! It is no draught
Of red intoxication; at its brim
No vine-wreathed head of Bacchus ever laughed, —
This homely cup of mine, now worn and dim
With time's rough usage; no bright bubbles swim,
Or foam-beads sparkle over. — Have ye quaffed
These waters clear, and felt the Shepherd waft
His breath of life through souls that follow Him?
He cools my feverish fancies; calms the stir
Of dreams whose end was only bitterness.
Healed at this fount our inmost ail would be,
Did we but health before disease prefer.

My cup is filled at wells whose blessedness
A world's thirst cannot drain. Friends, drink with me!