A little book, this grim November day,
Wherein, O tired heart, to creep away,—
Come drink this wine and wear this fadeless rose,
Nor heed the world, nor what the world shall say.
A thousand gardens — yet to-day there blows
In all their wintry walks no single rose,
But here with Omar you shall find the Spring
That fears no Autumn and eternal glows.
So on the song-soft petals of his rhyme
Pillow your head, as in some golden clime,
And let the beauty of eternity
Smooth from your brow the little frets of time.