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Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
"Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
"You know how little while we have to stay,
"And, once departed, may return no more."
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
"Red Wine!"---the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly---and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
And look---a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke---and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot!
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hatim Tai cry Supper---heed them not.
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known,
And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne.
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Wail! For the Law has scattered into flight
Those Drinks that were our sometime dear delight;
And still the Morals-tinkers plot and plan
New, sterner, stricter Statues to indite.
After the phantom of our Freedom died
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried:
“Drink coffee, Lads, for that is all that’s left
Since our Land of the Free is washed---and dried.”
The Haigs indeed are gone, and on the Nose
That bourgeoned once with color of the rose
A deathly Pallor sits, while down the lane
Where once strode Johnny Walker---Water goes.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Coffee-house
We’ll learn a new and temperate Carouse---
The Bird of Time flies with a steadier wing
But roosts with sleepless Eye---a Coffee Souse!
Each morn a thousand Recipes, you say---
Yes, but where match the beer of Yesterday?
And those Spring Months that used to bring the Bock
Seem very long ago and far away.
A Book of Blue Laws underneath the Bough,
A pot of Tea, a piece of Toast,---and Thou
Beside me sighing in the Wilderness---
Wilderness? It’s Desert, Sister, now.
Some for a Sunday without Taint, and Some
Sigh for Inebriate Paradise to come,
While Moonshine takes the Cash (no Credit goes)
And real old Stuff demands a Premium.
The Scanty Stock we set our hearts upon
Still dwindles and declines until anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face,
It lights us for an hour and then---is gone.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TODAY of past Regrets and future Fears---
Tomorrow!---Why, Tomorrow I may be
In Canada or Scotland or Algiers!
Yes, make the most of what we still may spend;
The last Drop’s lingering Taste may yet transcend
Anticipation’s Bliss---though we are left
Sans Wine, Sans Song, Sans Singer, and---Sans End. |