FITTING perfumes to prepare,

And to raise thy rapture high,
Must a thousand rosebuds fair

First in fiery torments die.

One small flask's contents to glean,

Whose sweet fragrance aye may live,
Slender as thy finger e'en,

Must a world its treasures give;

Yes, a world where life is moving,

Which, with impulse full and strong,
Could forbode the Bulbul's loving,

Sweet, and spirit-stirring song.

Since they thus have swell'd our joy,

Should such torments grieve us, then?
Doth not Timur's rule destroy

Myriad souls of living men?