To Edward Fitzgerald

‘ Tis a sad fate

To watch the world fighting,

All that is most fair

Ruthlessly blighting,

Blighting, ah! blighting.

When such a thought cometh

Let us not pine,

But gather old friends

Round the red wine —

Oh! pour the red wine!

And there we'll talk

And warm our wits

With Eastern fallacies

Out of old Fitz!

British old Fitz!

See him, half statesman —

Philosopher too —

Half ancient mariner

In baggy blue —

Such baggy blue!

Whimsical, wistful,

Haughty, forsooth:

Indolent always, yet

Ardent in truth,

But indolent, indolent!

There at the table

With us sits he,

Charming us subtly

To reverie,

Magic reverie.

“How sweet is summer's breath,

How sure and swift is death;

Nought wise on earth, save

What the wine whispereth,

Dreamily whispereth.

“At Naíshapúr beneath the sun,

Or here in misty Babylon,

Drink! for the rose leaves while you linger

Are falling, ever falling, one by one.”

Ah! poet's soul, once more with us conspire

To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,

Once more with us to-night, old Fitz, once more

Remould it nearer to the heart's desire!