XCVI
Perchance the world is nothing, is a dream,
And every noise the dreamland people say
We sedulously note, and we and they
May be the shadows flung by what we seem.
XCVII
Zohair the poet sang of loveliness
Which is the flight of things. Oh, meditate
Upon the sorrows of our earthly state,
For what is lovely we may not possess.
XCVIII
Heigho! the splendid air is full of wings,
And they will take us to the—friend, be wise
For if you navigate among the skies
You too may reach the subterranean kings.
XCIX
Now fear the rose! You travel to the gloom
Of which the roses sing and sing so fair,
And, but for them, you'd have a certain share
In life: your name be read upon the tomb.
C
There is a tower of silence, and the bell
Moves up—another man is made to be.
For certain years they move in company,
But you, when fails your song do fail as well.