Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say; And this first Summer month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away. Well, let it take them! What have we to do With me along the strip of Herbage strown Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot— A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, Some for the Glories of this World; and some Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, -“Lo, Look to the blowing Rose about us— At once the silken tassel of my Purse And those who husbanded the Golden grain, As, buried once, Men want dug up again. The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Think, in this battered caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: And Bahrám, that great Hunter-the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. I sometimes think that never blows so red That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropped in her Lap from some once lovely Head. And this reviving Herb whose tender Green Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath pressed, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest. And we that now make merry in the Room Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend ourselves to make a Couch-for whom? Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End! Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, Why, all the Saints and Sages who discussed Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument Came out by the same door where in I went. With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, Into this Universe, and Why not Knowing What, without asking, hither hurried Whence? Up from Earth's Center through the Seventh Gate And many a Knot unraveled by the Road; There was the Door to which I found no Key; There was and then no more of THEE and ME. Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs revealed And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn. Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard, As from Without-"THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!" Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn I leaned, the Secret of my Life to learn: I think the Vessel, that with fugitive And drink; and ah! the passive Lip I kissed, For I remember stopping by the way And has not such a Story from of Old And not a drop that from our Cups we throw To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye As then the Tulip for her morning sup Perplexed no more with Human or Divine, And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY You were-To-MORROW you shall not be less. So when the Angel of the darker Drink Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, Wer't not a Shame-wer't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide? 'Tis but a Tent where takes his one-day's rest And fear not lest Existence closing your When You and I behind the Veil are passed, A Moment's Halt-a momentary taste And Lo!-the phantom Caravan has reached The NOTHING it set out from-Oh, make haste! |