LXXXII

As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away,

Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

LXXXIII

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;

And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.

Said one among them

LXXXIV

"Surely not in vain

My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure molded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."

LXXXV

Then said a Second - "Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy:
And He that with his hand the Vessel made

Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."

LXXXVI

After a momentary silence spake

Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;

"They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

LXXXVII

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot

I think a Súfi pipkin - waxing hot

"All this of Pot and Potter-Tell me then,

Who makes - Who sells - Who buys - Who is the Pot?"

LXXXVIII

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell

The luckless Pots he marr'd in making- Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

LXXXIX

"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:

But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and by."

XC

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:

And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother! Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

XCI

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

XCII

That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

XCIII

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my credit in Men's eyes much wrong:

Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup,

And sold my Reputation for a Song.

XCIV

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before

I swore - but was I sober when I swore?

And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My threadbare Penitence apieces tore.

XCV

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor - Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One-half so precious as the stuff they sell.

XCVI

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!

XCVII

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse - if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
To which the fainting Traveler might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

XCVIII

Would but some wingèd Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!

XCIX

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-mold it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

C

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!

CI

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!

OVID

OVID, one of the most renowned of Roman poets. Born at Sulmo, March 20, 43 B.C.; died at Tomi, on the Danube, 18 A.D. Author of "Metamorphoses," the "Calendar," "Epistles," and "Tristia." His writings are among the classics of the Latin language. A man of great wit and culture, a friend of Horace, and a favorite in court circles at Rome, he was suddenly, and for some mysterious cause, banished by the Emperor Augustus to the very frontier of the empire. From this wretched outpost of civilization he wrote many pitiful appeals to the Emperor for pardon and permission to return, but in vain; and he died in exile after a banishment of ten years.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

Two neighboring trees, with walls encompass'd round,
Stand on a moderate rise, with wonder shown,
One a hard oak, a softer linden one:

I saw the place and them, by Pittheus sent

To Phrygian realms, my grandsire's government.
Not far from thence is seen a lake, the haunt
Of coots, and of the fishing cormorant:
Here Jove with Hermes came; but in disguise
Of mortal men conceal'd their Deities:

One laid aside his thunder, one his rod;
And many toilsome steps together trod;
For harbor at a thousand doors they knock'd,
Not one of all the thousand but was lock'd.
At last an hospitable house they found,

A homely shed; the roof, not far from ground,
Was thatch'd with reeds and straw together bound.
There Baucis and Philemon liv'd, and there
Had liv'd long married, and a happy pair:
Now old in love; though little was their store,
Inur'd to want, their poverty they bore,
Nor aim'd at wealth, professing to be poor.
For master or for servant here to call,
Was all alike, where only two were all.
Command was none, where equal love was paid,
Or rather both commanded, both obey'd.
From lofty roofs the Gods repuls'd before,
Now stooping, enter'd through the little door;
The man (their hearty welcome first express'd)
A common settle drew for either guest,

Inviting each his weary limbs to rest.

But ere they sat, officious Baucis lays

Two cushions stuff'd with straw, the feet to raise;
Coarse, but the best she had; then takes the load
Of ashes from the hearth, and spreads abroad
The living coals, and lest they should expire,
With leaves and barks she feeds her infant-fire:

It smokes, and then with trembling breath she blows,
Till in a cheerful blaze the flames arose.

With brushwood and with chips she strengthens these,
And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees.
The fire thus form'd, she sets the kettle on,
(Like burnish'd gold the little seether shone)
Next took the coleworts which her husband got
From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot);
She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves; the best
She cull'd, and then with handy care she dress'd.
High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung;
Good old Philemon seiz'd it with a prong,