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“Well,” murmured one, “let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry;

But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and by.”

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon looked in that all were seeking:

And then they jogged each other, “Brother! Brother! Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!”

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.

That even 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.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in the World much wrong:

Have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my reputation for a Song.

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.

And much as Wine has played the Infidel,
And robbed me of my Robe of Honor-Well,

I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

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!

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse-if dimly, yet indeed, revealed,

To which the fainting Traveler might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

Would but some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!

Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bitsand then
Remold it nearer to the Heart's desire!

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! .
And when like her, oh Sákí, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass,

And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One-turn down an empty Glass!

Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883]

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Where are they who in this world,

Ere we kept, were keeping?
Go ye to the gods above;
Go to hell; inquire thereof:

They are not: they're sleeping.
* For the original of this poem see page 3579.

Brief is life, and brevity

Briefly shall be ended:
Death comes like a whirlwind strong,
Bears us with his blast along;

None shall be defended.

Live this university,

Men that learning nourish!
Live each member of the same,
Long live all that bear its name;

Let them ever flourish!

Live the commonwealth also,

And the men that guide it!
Live our town in strength and health,
Founders, patrons, by whose wealth

We are here provided!

Live all gods! A health to you,

Melting maids and beauteous! Like the wives and women too, Gentle, loving, tender, true,

Good, industrious, duteous!

Perish cares that pule and pine!

Perish envious blamers!
Die the Devil, thine and mine!
Die the starch-neck Philistine!
Scoffers and defamers!
Translated from the Latin by

John Addington Symonds (1840–1893]



True, how true thy saying!
Swift as wind flies over us

Time, devouring, slaying.
* For the original of this poem see page 3581.

Where are, oh! those goblets full

Of wine, honey-laden,
Strifes and loves and bountiful

Lips of ruddy maiden?

Grows the young grape tenderly,

And the maid is growing;
But the thirsty poet, see,

Years on him are snowing!
What's the use on hoary curls

Of the bays undying,
If we may not kiss the girls,
Drink while time's a-flying?
Translated from the Latin by

John Addington Symonds (1840-1893)


From “The House of a Hundred Lights” The Great Sword Bearer only knows just when He'll wound

my heart,-not I: But since He is the one who gives the balm, what does it


If my Control should lose its hold on Fortune's collar through

some hurt, What then?—Why then I'd simply cling to old gray Resigna

tion's skirt.

Of all the languages of earth in which the human kind confer The Master Speaker is the Tear: it is the Great Interpreter.

Man's life is like a tide that weaves the sea within its daily

web. It rises, surges, swells, and grows, -a pause-then comes the

evening ebb.

In this rough field of earthly life I have reaped cause for

tears enough, Yet, after all, I think I've gleaned my modicum of LaughingStuff.

Frederic Ridgely Torrence (1875–


A LITTLE sun, a little rain,

A soft wind blowing from the westAnd woods and fields are sweet again,

And warmth within the mountain's breast.

So simple is the earth we tread,

So quick with love and life her frame: Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,

And still her magic is the same.

A little love, a little trust,

A soft impulse, a sudden dreamAnd life as dry as desert dust

Is fresher than a mountain stream.

So simple is the heart of man,

So ready for new hope and joy: Ten thousand years since it began Have left it younger than a boy.

Stopford Augustus Brooke (1832


This is the height of our deserts:
A little pity for life's hurts;
A little rain, a little sun,
A little sleep when work is done.

A little righteous punishment,
Less for our deeds than their intent;
A little pardon now and then,
Because we are but struggling men.

A little light to show the way,
A little guidance where we stray;
A little love before we pass
To rest beneath the kirkyard grass.

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