Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/844

 Ah, my Belovèd, fill the Cup that clears of past Regrets and Future Fears: To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!

III

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side

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, O 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!