Wake! For the Sun, who scattered into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from heaven, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
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.
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!
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TODAY of past Regrets and future Fears:
Tomorrow! — Why, Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
One thing at least is certain — This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us passed the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
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
Remold it nearer to the Heart's Desire!