Tents

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
A book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a loaf of bread and though
Beside me singing in the Wilderness
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow
You rising Moon that looks for us again
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through the same garden and for one in vain

For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay
And with its all-obliterated tongue
It murmur'd _"Gently, Brother, Gently, pray!"