When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates The pet of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room-- Glittering square of colored ice, Sweetened with syrup, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes and citrons and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes.
So precious life is! Even to the oldThe hours are as a misers coins!
Night is a stealthy, evil Raven, Wrapt to the eyes in his black wings.
Upon the cunning loom of thought We weave our fancies, so and so.
What probing deep Has ever solved the mystery of sleep?
Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate sleep!
In her eyes a thought Grew sweeter and sweeter, deepening like the dawn, A mystical forewarning.
What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.
Here is woe, a self and not the mask of woe.
Wide open and unguarded stand our gates, Named of the four winds, North, South, East and West; Portals that lead to an enchanted land Here, it is written, Toil shall have its wage And Honor honor, and the humblest man Stand level with the highest in the law. Of such a land have men in dungeons dreamed And with the vision brightening in their eyes Gone smiling to the fagot and the sword. O Liberty, white Goddess! is it well To leave the gates unguarded? On thy breast Fold Sorrows children, soothe the hurts of Fate, Lift the down-trodden, but with hand of steel Stay those who to thy sacred portals come To waste the gifts of Freedom.
So precious life is! Even to the old The hours are as a misers coins!
Somewherein desolate wind-swept space In Twilight-landin No-mans land Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand.
If my best wines mislike thy taste, And my best service win thy frown, Then tarry not, I bid thee haste; There's many another Inn in town.
When friends are at your hearthside met, Sweet courtesy has done its most If you have made each guest forget That he himself is not the host.
All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?