take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;

Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

Look to the Rose that blows about us— “Lo,

Laughing,” she says, “into the World I blow:

   At once the silken Tassel of my Purse

Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.”

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon

Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,

   Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face

Lighting a little Hour or two—is gone.

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.

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.

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.

I sometimes think that never blows so red