Sent with a Bottle of Burgundy for a Birthday

Drop by Drop it Empties Now, not
Even as
Our own
Tearful
Vintage,
Gathering
Itself with
Such slowness,
Gradually might
Widen in the bottom
Of some oblate vessel,
But as when the pouring
Bottle, now nearly half of
Its old wine spent, delivers
The rest up in sobs rapidly.
Tears years and wine expire
As tosspot Time sends after
His cellarer once more, alas.
Then let the darkling drops
Wept in a decent year along
The golden slopes elude for
A moment or so his horribly
Steady pouring hand and run
Into sparkling glasses, still
Unshattered, yes, and undimmed.