Morning when dawn’s left hand was in the sky
I heard a voice within the tavern cry
Awake my little ones and fill the cup
Before life’s liquor in its cup be dry.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse, and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

The Moving Finger writes, and having writ
Moves on, nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.