EDWARD FITZGERALD
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend ;
Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and sans End'
in
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side. . . .
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden and for one in vain!
And when like her, O Saki, you shall pass Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One turn down an empty Glass!
��RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES,
LORD HOUGHTON
706 The Men of Old
KNOW not that the men of old Were better than men now, Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow. I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of Time to raise, As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days.
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