Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine, And many a Garden by the Water blows. VI And David's lips are lockt; but in divine High-piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine. VII Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing. VIII Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon, Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. IX Each Morn 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 Zál and Rustum bluster as they will, Or Hátim call 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 Mahmúd on his golden Throne! XII 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! 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 Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! XIV 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." 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 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. XVII 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. XVIII 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. XIX I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head XX