So when the Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff — you shall not shrink.*
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Wer’t not a Shame — wer’t not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
’T is but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest
A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour’d
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.