And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,

And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,

Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d

As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

XVI

Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai

Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,

How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp

Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

XVII

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep

The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep:

And Bahrám, that great Hunter — the Wild Ass

Stamps o’er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.

XVIII

I sometimes think that never blows so red

The Rose as where some buried Cœsar bled;

That every Hyacinth the Garden wears

Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.