"With me along some Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known, And pity Sultán Mahmúd on his Throne."

"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!"

"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."

"Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness — And Wilderness is Paradise enow."

"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!"

""How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"—think some: Others — "How blest the Paradise to come!" Ah, take the Cash in hand and wave the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!"

"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!"

"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 — is gone."

"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."

"Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his Hour or two, and went his way."

"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, and he lies fast asleep."

"Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep."

"Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way."

"I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head."

"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."

"Ah! my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears To-day of past Regrets and future Fears — To-morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years."

"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!"

"Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to Rest."

"For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest."

"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!"

"Alike for those who for prepare, And those that after some stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There.""