happy birthday poem

we break the glass whose sacred wine
i went up and down the streets
they may talk of love in a cottage
rising moon has hid the stars
sleep, gray brother of death
my mother taught me that every night
tell me less or tell me more
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
the saddest of the year
this is the ship of pearl
in your arms was still delight
there is no flock, however watched and tended
daughter, thou art come to die
there is a country full of wine