The shatter’d bowl shall know repair; the riven lute shall sound once more; But who shall mend the clay of man, the stolen breath to man restore?

The shiver’d clock again shall strike; the broken reed shall pipe again: But we, we die, and Death is one, the doom of brutes, the doom of men.

Then, if Nirwânâ* round our life with nothingness, ’tis haply best; Thy toils and troubles, want and woe at length have won their guerdon—Rest.

Cease, Abdû, cease! Thy song is sung, nor think the gain the singer’s prize; Till men hold Ignor’ance deadly sin, till man deserves his title “Wise:”**

In Days to come, Days slow to dawn, when Wisdom deigns to dwell with men, These echoes of a voice long stilled haply shall wake responsive strain: