174.
To-day how sweetly breathes the temperate air,
The rains have newly laved the parched parterre;
And Bulbuls cry in notes of ecstacy,
"Thou too, O pallid rose, our wine must share!"
175.
Ere you succumb to shocks of mortal pain,
The rosy grape-juice from your wine-cup drain.
You are not gold, that, hidden in the earth.
Your friends should care to dig you up again!
176.
My coming brought no profit to the sky,
Nor does my going swell its majesty;
Coming and going put me to a stand,
Ear never heard their wherefore nor their why.
174. L. N. B. Note khward rhyming with gard. Bl., Prosody, p. 12. The waw, of course, does not count.
175. C. L. N. A. B. 1. J. Note the old form of the imperative, farmáy. Bl., Prosody, p. 13.
