Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash the Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side. XCII That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air As not a True-believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware. XCIII Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this World much wrong: Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song. XCIV Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore--but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. XCV And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor--Well, I wonder often what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell. XCVI Yet ah, 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! XCVII Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd, To which the fainting Traveler might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field! XCVIII Would but some wingèd Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate! XCIX Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits--and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! * * * * * C Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-- How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden--and for _one_ in vain! CI And when like her, oh Sákí, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass! ROBERT BROWNING RABBI BEN EZRA I Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned; Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!" II Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" III Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. IV