A book of verses underneath the Bough,

   A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and Thou

   Beside me singing in the Wilderness --

   And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
 

  Whereat some one of the loquacious lot

  I think a Sufi pipkin -- waxing hot

  "All this of pot and potter -- tell me then,

  Who is the potter, pray, and who the pot?
 

  With earth's first clay they did the last man's

            knead,

  And then of the last harvest sow'd the seed:

  Yea, the first morning of creation wrote

  What the last dawn of reckoning shall read.
 

  Into this universe, and why not knowing,

  Not whence, like water willy-nilly flowing:

  And out of it, as wind along the waste,

  I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.