XXXV

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive

Articulation answer’d, once did live,

And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss’d

How many Kisses might it take — and give!

XXXVI

For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,

I watch’d the Potter thumping his wet Clay:

And with its all obliterated Tongue

It murmur’d — “Gently, Brother, gently, pray!”

XXXVII

Ah, fill the Cup: — what boots it to repeat

How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

Unborn TO-MORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,

Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!

[From Preface.

Oh, if my soul can fling his Dust aside,

And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,

Is ’t not a Shame, is ’t not a Shame for Him

So long in this Clay Suburb to abide?

Or is that but a Tent, where rests anon

A Sultán to his Kingdom passing on,

And which the swarthy Chamberlain shall strike

Then when the Sultán rises to be gone?]