I.
WAKE! For the Sun who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II.
Before the phantom of False morning died, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried, "When all the Temple is prepared within, "Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?"
III.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door! "You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more."
IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V.
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine, And many a Garden by the Water blows.
VI.
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! "Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose That sallow cheek of her's to' incarnadine.
VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon, Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX.
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say: Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday? And this first Summer month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
X.
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru? Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will, Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you.
XI.
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot-- And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
XII.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII.
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XIV.
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo, Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow, At once the silken tassel of my Purse Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XV.
And those who husbanded the Golden grain, And those who flung it to the winds like Rain, Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two--was gone.
XVII.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destin'd Hour, and went his way.
XVIII.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XIX.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
XX.
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXI.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regret and future Fears: To-morrow--Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
XXII.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.
XXIII.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
XXIV.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
XXV.
Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after some TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries, "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."