By O--r K--m.

Wake! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept
Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept,
And wailed the Nightingale with 'Jug, jug, jug!'
Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept.

Enter with me where yonder door hangs out
Its Red Triangle to a world of drought,
Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn,
Where Death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckerout.

Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe
Stood by the Tavern-door and whispered, 'Lo,
The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup?
Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup go.'

But I: 'For every thirsty soul that drains
This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains--
Free-will the _can_, Necessity the _must_,
Pour off the _must_, and, see, the _can_ remains.

'Then, pot or glass, why label it "_With Care_"?
Or why your Sheepskin with my Gourd compare?
Lo! here the Bar and I the only Judge:--
O, Dog that bit me, I exact an hair!'

We are the Sum of things, who jot our score
With Caesar's clay behind the Tavern door:
And Alexander's armies--where are they,