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TO OMAR KHAYYAM
The crocus and the daffodil should holdAs inalienable dow'r.Before thy gaze the sad unvaried greenThe cypresses like robes funeral wear,Was woven on the gradual looms of airFrom threadbare silk and tattered sendalineThat clothed some ancient queen;And from the spoilt vermilion of her mouth,The myrtles rose, and from her ruined hair,And eyes that held the summer's ardent drouthIn blown, disrooted bow'rs;And amber limbs and breast,Through ancient nights by sleepless love oppressed,Or by the iron flight of loveless hours.
Knowing the weary wisdom of the years,The empty truth of tears;The suns of June that with some great excessOf ardor slay the unabiding rose,And grey-haired winter, wan and fervourlessFor whom no flower grows;Seeing the scarlet and the gold that pales,On Orient snows untrodIn magic morns that grant,Across a land of common green and gray,The disenchanted day;Knowing the iron veilsAnd walls of adamant,That ward the darkling verities of God—Knowing these things, ah, surely thou wert wise,Beneath the warm and thunder-dreaming skies,To kiss on ardent breast and avid mouth,Some girl whose sultry eyesWere golden with the sun-beloved south—To pluck the rose and drain the rose-red wine,In gardens half-divine;Before the broken cupBe filled and covered upIn dusty seas of everlasting drouth.
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