Look, this is but one single place,
       Though it be great; all the earth round,
     If a man bear to have it so,
       Things which might vex him shall be found.

* * * * *

All these have sorrow, and keep still,
Whilst other men make cheer, and sing,
Wilt thou have pity on all these? 
No, nor on this dead dog, O King!

THE KING

O Vizier, thou art old, I young! 
Clear in these things I cannot see. 
My head is burning, and a heat
Is in my skin which angers me.

But hear ye this, ye sons of men! 
They that bear rule, and are obeyed,
Unto a rule more strong than theirs
Are in their turn obedient made.

     In vain therefore, with wistful eyes
       Gazing up hither, the poor man
     Who loiters by the high-heaped booths,
       Below there in the Registan,

     Says:—­“Happy he, who lodges there! 
       With silken raiment, store of rice,
     And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,
       Grape-syrup, squares of colored ice,

     With cherries served in drifts of snow.” 
       In vain hath a king power to build
     Houses, arcades, enameled mosques;
       And to make orchard-closes, filled

     With curious fruit-trees brought from far;
       With cisterns for the winter rain;
     And in the desert, spacious inns
       In divers places—­if that pain

     Is not more lightened, which he feels,
       If his will be not satisfied;
     And that it be not, from all time
       The law is planted, to abide.

     Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man! 
       Thou wast athirst, and didst not see
     That, though we take what we desire,
       We must not snatch it eagerly.

     And I have meat and drink at will,
       And rooms of treasures, not a few,
     But I am sick, nor heed I these;
       And what I would, I cannot do.

     Even the great honor which I have,
       When I am dead, will soon grow still;
     So have I neither joy nor fame—­
       But what I can do, that I will.

     I have a fretted brickwork tomb
       Upon a hill on the right hand,
     Hard by a close of apricots,
       Upon the road of Samarcand;

     Thither, O Vizier, will I bear
       This man my pity could not save,
     And plucking up the marble flags,
       There lay his body in my grave.

     Bring water, nard, and linen rolls! 
       Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb! 
     Then say:—­“He was not wholly vile,
       Because a king shall bury him.”

          DOVER BEACH

     The sea is calm to-night. 
     The tide is full, the moon lies fair
     Upon the straits;—­on the French coast the light
     Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
     Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.