I ' VE slipped into the years betwixt the green of youth and age,
Betwixt the dawn and the sunset, upon life's pilgrimage.
And well do I love the green yet, though turned toward the grey
But I do not cry for the flowers of it,
The April-tripping hours of it,
And all the singing bowers of it,
As on I take my way.

At twenty I had not scrip nor staff, my limbs were lightly clad;
My food was space — and a girl's face — from Yazd to Allahabad!
And each, then, did I love — and each is still my houri-one:
Though I am not sad for the lips of them,
The clinging finger-tips of them,
Nor for the moonlit sips of them
I took, in benison.

And every road at twenty led me to my Mecca, Joy;
Where Allah might be, or not be: that was not my employ!
For earth was made, and that was enough. I walked a Paradise:
Yet not to sigh for the sun of it,
The Sufi visions spun of it;
Or — now — with soul undone of it,
Refuse to pay the price!

For if I was Infidel, as Doctors avow — or worse, mad;
And if the only Koran I read was the strong heart I had;
I want no other or better bliss than such insanity!
Though I will not sue for the day of it,
The long wild passion sway of it,
The wine and minstrel way of it,
To come again to me.

For Forty is good as Twenty — to him who loves the earth.
The bulbul sings a different song, but one as sweet of worth.
A face is not so fair then, though fairer is the soul:
So here, by the Caravansary,
Where I may every dancer see,
A quiet seat will answer me
As well upon the whole.

As well! and youth may laugh at age — for age can laugh at youth.
And not a sunnier laughter leaps from Joy, than out of Truth.
Nor boots it what our years may be, if laughter is our friend.
So though, now, it is clear I store
Along my thinning brow two-score,
This will I keep — if nothing more —
A glad heart to the end!