XXXVI

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,

And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd, How many Kisses might it take—and give!

XXXVII

For I remember stopping by the way

To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd-"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"

(See Stanza LVII.)

XXXVIII

And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a cloud of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?

(See Stanza XLVII.)

A

XXXIX

And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden-far beneath, and long ago.

XL

As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you-like an empty Cup.

XLI

Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,

And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.

XLII

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in—Yes;

Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY
You were-To-MORROW you shall not be less.

(See Stanza XLVIII.)

[From Preface.

Oh, if my soul can fling his Dust aside,

And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,

Is 't not a Shame, is 't not a Shame for Him

So long in this Clay Suburb to abide ?

Or is that but a Tent, where rests anon

A Sultán to his Kingdom passing on,

And which the swarthy Chamberlain shall strike Then when the Sultán rises to be gone?]

XLIII

So when the Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,

And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul

Forth to your Lips to quaff—you shall not shrink.

XLIV

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,

And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,

Wer't not a Shame

wer't not a Shame for him

In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

XLV

'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

XLVI

And fear not lest Existence closing your

Account, and mine, should know the like no more;

The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour'd Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.