And “UP-AND-DOWN” without, I could define,

   I yet in all I only cared to know,

Was never deep in anything but—Wine.

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,

Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape

   Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and

He bid me taste of it; and ’twas—the Grape!

The Grape that can with Logic absolute

The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:

   The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice

Life’s leaden Metal into Gold transmute.

The mighty Mahmúd, the victorious Lord,

That all the misbelieving and black Horde

   Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul

Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.

But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me

The Quarrel of the Universe let be:

   And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,

Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

For in and out, above, about, below,

’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,

   Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,

Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.