|
| 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 Worshipper
outside?" |
|
| 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. |
|
| And David's lips are lockt' but in
divine |
| High-piping Péhlevi, with
"Wine!Wine!Wine! |
Red
Wine!" -the Nightingale cries to the Rose |
That
sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine. |
|
| Whether at Naishápúr 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. |
|
| Well, let it take Them! What have we to
do |
| With Kaikobád the Great, or
Kaikhosrú? |
Let
Zál and Rustum bluster as they will, |
| Or Hatim call to Supper-heed not you. |
|
| 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! |
|
| 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." |
|
| The Wordly 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-is gone. |
|
| They say the Lion and the Lizard keep |
| the Courts where Jamshýd gloried and
drank deep: |
And Bahrám, that
great Hunter-the Wild Ass |
| Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break
his Sleep. |
|
| 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! |
|
