LIX.

Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Have squared the Year to human compass, eh?
If so, by striking from the Calendar
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!

LXI.

The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: 20
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute :

LXII.

The mighty Mahmúd, Allah-breathing Lord, That all the misbelieving and black Horde 21 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 ?

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, 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.

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 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,
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
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 Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrásh
Strikes, and prepares it for another guest.

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,

And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire,

Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerg'd from, shall so soon expire.

LXXIII.

We are no other than a moving row

Of visionary Shapes that come and go

Round with this Sun-illumin'd Lantern held

In Midnight by the Master of the Show; 22

LXXIV.

Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays; 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! 23

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

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,
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 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.

LXXXI.

I tell you this-When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal

Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtari they flung,"
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul

LXXXII.

The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
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,

One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.