Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say; Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday? And this first Summer month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away. X Well, let it take them! What have we to do With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú? Let Rustum cry "To Battle!" as he likes, Or Hátim Tai "To Supper"--heed not you. XI With me along the Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot-- And Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne? XII Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! [Illustration: QUATRAIN LXXII p. 76 [_First Edition of the Translation_] Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!] [Illustration: QUATRAIN XI p. 86 [_Second Edition of the Translation_] With me along the Strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot-- And Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne?] XIII Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the promise go, Nor heed the music of a distant Drum! XIV Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin The Thread of present Life away to win-- What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in! XV 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." XVI For 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. XVII 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--was gone. XVIII Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. XIX 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. XX