Skip to main content
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
that from his vintage rolling Time has pressed;
they drank their cup a round or two before,
and one by one crept silently to rest.
And we who now make merry in the room
they left and summer dresses in new bloom,
we too must soon 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;
from dust to dust, and under dust to stay,
no wine, no rose, no song, no book, no friend!
Alike for those who for Today prepare
and those that after some Tomorrow stare:
a voice atop the minaret cries out,
“Fools! Your reward is neither here nor there.”
Why, all the saints and sages who discussed
of the two worlds so wisely — they are thrust
like foolish prophets forth; their words to scorn
are scattered and their mouths are stopped with dust.