Thus far to-day your favors reach, O fair, appeasing presences! Ye taught my lips a single speech, And a thousand silences. Space grants beyond his fated road No inch to the god of day; And copious language still bestowed One word, no more, to say. THE HOUSE There is no architect Can build as the Muse can; She is skilful to select Materials for her plan; Slow and warily to choose Rafters of immortal pine, Or cedar incorruptible, Worthy her design, She threads dark Alpine forests Or valleys by the sea, In many lands, with painful steps, Ere she can find a tree. She ransacks mines and ledges And quarries every rock, To hew the famous adamant For each eternal block-- She lays her beams in music, In music every one, To the cadence of the whirling world Which dances round the sun-- That so they shall not be displaced By lapses or by wars, But for the love of happy souls Outlive the newest stars. SAADI Trees in groves, Kine in droves, In ocean sport the scaly herds, Wedge-like cleave the air the birds, To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks, Browse the mountain sheep in flocks, Men consort in camp and town, But the poet dwells alone. God, who gave to him the lyre, Of all mortals the desire, For all breathing men's behoof, Straitly charged him, 'Sit aloof;' Annexed a warning, poets say, To the bright premium,-- Ever, when twain together play, Shall the harp be dumb. Many may come, But one shall sing; Two touch the string, The harp is dumb. Though there come a million, Wise Saadi dwells alone. Yet Saadi loved the race of men,-- No churl, immured in cave or den; In bower and hall He wants them all, Nor can dispense With Persia for his audience; They must give ear, Grow red with joy and white with fear; But he has no companion; Come ten, or come a million, Good Saadi dwells alone. Be thou ware where Saadi dwells; Wisdom of the gods is he,-- Entertain it reverently. Gladly round that golden lamp Sylvan deities encamp, And simple maids and noble youth Are welcome to the man of truth. Most welcome they who need him most, They feed the spring which they exhaust; For greater need Draws better deed: But, critic, spare thy vanity, Nor show thy pompous parts, To vex with odious subtlety The cheerer of men's hearts.