On The Fly-Leaf Of The Rubaiyat

A poem by Arthur Sherburne Hardy

Deem not this book a creed, 't is but the cry
Of one who fears not death, yet would not die;
Who at the table feigns with sorry jest.
To love the wine the Master's hand has pressed,
The while he loves the absent Master best,
The bitter cry of Love for love's reply!

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