|
| Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that
clears |
| To0day of past Regrets and future
Fears: |
To-morrow!-Why,
T-morrow I may be |
| Myself with yesterday's Sev'n thousand
Years |
|
| 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? |
|
| Alike for those who for To-day prepare, |
| And those that after some To-morrow
stare, |
A
Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries, |
| "Fools!yours Reward is neither
Here nor There." |
|
| Myself when young did eagerly frequent |
| Doctor and Saint, and heard great
argument |
about
it and about: but evermore |
| Came out by the same door where in I
went. |
|
| Into this Universe, and Why not knowing |
| Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly
along the Waste, |
And out of it, as
Wind along the Waste, |
| I know not Whither, willy-nilly
blowing. |
|
| Up from Earth's Center through the
Seventh Gate |
| I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn
sate; |
And many a Knot
unravel'd by the Road; |
| but not the Master-knot of Human Fate. |
|
| Earth could not answer; nor the Seas
that mourn |
| In flowing Purple, of their Lord
forlorn; |
Nor rolling Heaven,
with all his Signs reveal'd |
| And hidden by the sleeve of Night and
Morn. |
|
| Then to the Lip of this poor earthen
Urn |
| I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to
learn: |
And Lip to Lip it
murmur'd-"While your live, |
| Drink!for, once dead, you never shall
return." |
|
| For I remember stopping by the way |
| To watch a Potter thumping his wet
Clay: |
And with its
all-obliterated Tongue |
| It murmur'd-"Gently, Brother,
gently, pray!" |
|
| And not a drop that from our Cups we
throw |
| For Earth to drink of, but may steal
below |
To quench the fire of
Anguish in some Eye |
| There hidden-far beneath, and long ago. |
|
|
|
| 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. |
|
| 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! |
|
| Why, all the Saints and Sages who
discuss'd |
| Of the Two Worlds so wisely-they are
thrust |
| Like foolish Prophets
forth; their Words to Scorn |
| Are scatter'd, and their
Mouths are stopt with Dust. |
|
| With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, |
| And with mine own hand wrought to make
it grow; |
And
this was all the Harvest that I reap'd- |
| "I came like WAter, and like Wind
I go." |
|
| What, without asking, hither hurried
Whence? |
| And, without asking, Whither hurried
hence! |
Oh,
many a Cup of this forbidden Wine |
| Must drown the memory of that
insolence! |
|
| There was the Door to which I found no
Key; |
| There was the Veil through which I
might not see; |
Some little talk
awhile of Me and Thee |
| There was-and then no more of Thee and
Me. |
|
| Then of the Thee in Me who works behind |
| The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find |
A lamp amid the
Darkness; and I heard, |
| As from Without-"The Me Within
Thee Blind!" |
|
| I think the Vessel, that with fugitive |
| Articulation answer'd, once did live, |
And drink; and Ah!the
passive Lip I kiss'd, |
| How many Kisses might it take-and give! |
|
| And has not such a Story from the Old |
| Down Man's successive generations
roll'd |
Of such a clod of
saturated Earth |
| Cast by the Maker into Human mould? |
|
| As then the Tulip for her morning sup |
| Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks
up, |
Do you devoutly do
the like, till Heav'n |
| To Earth invert you-like an empty Cup. |
|
|
