Where is the Arab, to revive
The old night-revelry,
And where the Persian, to bring alive
The love-lute’s minstrelsy?

Under the Sufi elder’s gown
The flagon is bare and dry;
Alas, for none can tell in the town
Where young red wine’s to buy.

Every man in this grassy mead
Fashions and takes his rest,
But where is he, ah, where indeed,
Who will make, and burn, his nest?

A thousand caravan-trains have stared
Like a stranger, and then passed on,
But he that close as a lover dared
To gaze–is there anyone?

Rise like a wave, and surging flow
In the ocean eternally?
Thou seek’st the shore, and dost not know
Where ever the shore may be.

Hither (for in thy tendril’s vein
The fresh young blood doth bound)
Hither hasten, nor ask again
Where the Magian wine is found.

Twist into one vast war-array
All ages that ever were;
Later and sooner are passed away;
Where now is Time, ah, where?