With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

BELOVED, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew

In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,

Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew

From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,

And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!-take them, as I used to do

Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colors true,

And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.

He giveth his beloved sleep-Ps. cxxvii. 2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this-
'He giveth His beloved sleep'?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake.
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.

'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eye-lids creep.
But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap.
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

Aye, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard-
'He giveth His belovèd, sleep.'

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would child-like on His love repose,
Who giveth His belovèd, sleep.

And, friends, dear friends,-when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall;
He giveth His belovèd, sleep.'

EDWARD FITZGERALD

[1809-1883]

657 RUBAIYAT of Omar Khayyam of NaishaPUR

Second Edition

I

WAKE! For the Sun behind yon Eastern height Has chased the Session of the Stars from Night; And to the field of Heav'n ascending, strikes The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

II

Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why lags the drowsy Worshipper outside?"

III

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."

IV

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 his Rose,

And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby gushes from the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.

VI

And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Péhlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"-the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.

VII

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter-and the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII

Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

IX

Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

And this first Summer month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.

X

Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?
Let Rustum cry To Battle!" as he likes,
Or Hátim Tai "To supper!"-heed not you.

66

XI

With me along the strip of Herbage strown That just divides the desert from the sown, Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgotAnd Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne!

XII

Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

XIII

Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Promise go, Nor heed the music of a distant Drum!

XIV

Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin

The Thread of present Life away to win

What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!

XV

66

Look to the blowing Rose about us— Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."