Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:

   And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught

The Sultán’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.

Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,

And Jamshýd’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 Pehleví, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!

   Red Wine!”—the Nightingale cries to the Rose