VIII. And look—a thousand blossoms with the Day Woke—and a thousand scatter'd into Clay: And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away. IX. But come with old Khayyám and leave the Lot Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot: Let Rustum lay about him as he will, Or Hátim Tai cry Supper—heed them not. X. 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 Máhmúd on his Throne. XI. 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. XII. "How sweet is mortal Sovranty"—think some: Others—"How blest the Paradise to come!" Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a _distant_ Drum! XIII. Look to the Rose that blows 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." XIV. 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. XV. 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. XVI. 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. XVII. 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. XVIII. 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. XIX. And this delightful Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean— Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! XX. 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. XXI. 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. XXII. 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? XXIII.