Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears
To-day of past regrets and future fears:

To-morrow!-Why to-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's sev'n thousand years.

For some we lov'd, the loveliest and the best
That from his vintage rolling Time has prest,
Have drunk their cup a round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the couch of earth
Descend ourselves to make a couch-for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the dust descend;

Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie,
Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and-sans end!

II

And if the wine you drink, the lip you press
End in what all begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were-To-morrow you shall not be less.

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?

'Tis 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 Sáki from that bowl has pour'd Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour.

III

Yet ah, that Spring should vanish with the rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence and whither flown again, who knows!

Would but the desert of the fountain yield
One glimpse-if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,

To which the fainting traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field! .

Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits and then
Re-mould it nearer to the heart's desire!

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, oh Sáki, you shall pass Among the guests star-scatter'd on the grass, And in your blissful errand reach the spot Where I made one-turn down an empty glass!

TEARS, IDLE TEARS

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens ever one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

From THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES
BY JOHN KEATS

A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knotgrass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast.
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint;
She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed,
Save wings, for Heaven-Porphyro grew faint—
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

MOONLIGHT MUSIC

(From The Merchant of Venice)

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica: Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins!
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS

(From The Tempest)

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve