Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (239 page)

And if the Cup you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in — Yes;
 
Imagine then you
are
what heretofore
You
were
— hereafter you shall not be less.
  
180

XLVI

So when at last the Angel of the Drink
Of Darkness finds you by the river-brink,
 
And, proffering his Cup, invites your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff it — do not shrink.

XLVII

And fear not lest Existence closing
your
  
185
Account, should lose, or know the type no more;
 
The Eternal Sa´kì from that Bowl has pour’d
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.

XLVIII

When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long long while the World shall last,
  
190
 
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.

XLIX

One Moment in Annihilation’s Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste —
 
The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
  
195
Draws to the Dawn of Nothing — Oh make haste.

L

Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THE SECRET — quick about it, Friend!
 
A Hair, they say, divides the False and True —
And upon what, prithee, does Life depend?
  
200

LI

A Hair, they say, divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue —
 
Could you but find it — to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to THE MASTER too;

LII

Whose secret Presence, through Creation’s veins
  
205
Running, Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
 
Taking all shapes from Ma´h to Ma´hi; and
They change and perish all-but He remains;

LIII

A moment guess’d — then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll’d
  
210
 
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He does Himself contrive, enact, behold.

LIV

But it in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav’n’s unopening Door,
 
You gaze TO-DAY, while You are YOU — how then
  
215
TO-MORROW, You when shall be You no more?

LV

Oh, plagued no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow’s tangle to itself resign,
 
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
  
220

LVI

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
 
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

LVII

You know, my Friends, how bravely in my House
  
225
For a new Marriage I did make Carouse;
 
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

LVIII

For “IS” and “IS-NOT” though with Rule and Line
And “UP-AND-DOWN” by Logic I define,
  
230
 
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but — Wine.

LIX

Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Have squared the Year to human compass, eh?
 
If so, by striking from the Calendar
  
235
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

LX

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
 
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and ’twas — the Grape!
  
240

LXI

The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
 
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life’s leaden metal into Gold transmute:

LXII

The mighty Mahmu´d, Allah-breathing Lord,
  
245
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
 
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

LXIII

Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
  
250
 
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse — why, then, Who set it there?

LXIV

I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta’en on trust,
 
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
  
255
When the frail Cup is crumbled into Dust!

LXV

If but the Vine and Love-abjuring Band
Are in the Prophet’s Paradise to stand,
 
Alack, I doubt the Prophet’s Paradise
Were empty as the hollow of one’s Hand.
 
 
260

LXVI

Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain —
This
Life flies;
 
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once is blown for ever dies.

LXVII

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
  
265
Before us pass’d the door of Darkness through,
 
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.

LXVIII

The Revelations of Devout and Learn’d
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn’d,
  
270
 
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep
They told their fellows, and to Sleep return’d.

LXIX

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
 
Is’t not a Shame — is’t not a Shame for him
  
275
So long in this Clay Suburb to abide?

LXX

But that is but a Tent wherein may rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
 
The Sulta´n rises, and the dark Ferra´sh
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
  
280

LXXI

I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
 
And after many days my Soul return’d,
And said, “Behold, Myself am Heav’n and Hell:”

LXXII

Heav’n but the Vision of fulfill’d Desire,
  
285
And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire,
 
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

LXXIII

We are no other than a moving row
Of visionary Shapes that come and go
  
290
 
Round with this Sun-illumin’d Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXXIV

Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
 
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
  
295
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

LXXV

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
 
And He that toss’d you down into the Field,
He
knows about it all —
HE
knows —
HE
knows!
  
300

LXXVI

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
 
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXXVII

For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
  
305
Of what they will, and what they will not — each
 
Is but one Link in an eternal Chain
That none can slip, nor break, nor over-reach.

LXXVIII

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop’d we live and die,
  
310
 
Lift not your hands to
It
for help — for It
As impotently rolls as you or I.

LXXIX

With Earth’s first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow’d the Seed:
 
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
  
315
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

LXXX

YESTERDAY
This
Day’s Madness did prepare;
TO-MORROW’S Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
 
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
  
320

LXXXI

I tell you this — When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
 
Of Heav’n Parwi´n and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.

LXXXII

The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
  
325
If clings my being — let the Dervish flout;
 
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

LXXXIII

And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
  
330
 
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

LXXXIV

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
 
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
  
335
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

LXXXV

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent us dross-allay’d
 
Sue for a Debt we never did contract,
And cannot answer — Oh the sorry trade!
  
340

LXXXVI

Nay, but, for terror of his wrathful Face,
I swear I will not call Injustice Grace;
 
Not one Good Fellow of the Tavern but
Would kick so poor a Coward from the place.

LXXXVII

Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
  
345
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
 
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!

LXXXVIII

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake:
  
350
 
For all the Sin the Face of wretched Man
Is black with — Man’s Forgiveness give — and take!

LXXXIX

As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramaza´n away,
 
Once more within the Potter’s house alone
  
355
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.