CAMELOT FANTASIES

LXI.

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?

LXII.

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,
 To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!

LXIII.

Of 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 has blown for ever dies.

LXIV.

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.

LXV.

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 comrades, and to Sleep return'd.

LXVI.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
 Some letter of that After-life to spell:
    And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
 And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"

LXVII.

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

LXVIII.

We are no other than a moving row
 Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
    Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
 In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXIX.

But helpless 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.

LXX.

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
 But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
    And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
 He knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!

LXXI.

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.

LXXII.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
 Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
    Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
 As impotently moves as you or I.

LXXIII.

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.

LXXIV.

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

LXXV.

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

LXXVI.

The Vine had struck a fiber: which about
 It clings my Being--let the Dervish flout;
    Of my Base metal may be filed a Key
 That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

LXXVII.

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.

LXXVIII.

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

LXXIX.

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

LXXX.

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

LXXXI.

Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
 And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
    For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
 Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

LXXXII.

As under cover of departing Day
 Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
    Once more within the Potter's house alone
 I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

LXXXIII.

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
 That stood along the floor and by the wall;
    And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
 Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.

LXXXIV.

Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
 My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
    And to this Figure molded, to be broke,
 Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."

LXXXV.

Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
 Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
    And He that with his hand the Vessel made
 Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."

LXXXVI.

After a momentary silence spake
 Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
    "They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
 What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

LXXXVII.

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?"

LXXXVIII.

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
 Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
    The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
 He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

LXXXIX.

"Well," murmured one, "Let whoso make or buy,
 My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
    But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."

XC.

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
 The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
    And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
 Now for the Porter's shoulders' knot a-creaking!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

XCI.

Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide,
 And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
    And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
 By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

XCII.

That ev'n buried Ashes such a snare
 Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
    As not a True-believer passing by
 But shall be overtaken unaware.

XCIII.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
 Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
    Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup,
 And sold my reputation for a Song.

XCIV.

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
 I swore--but was I sober when I swore?
    And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
 My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

XCV.

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
 And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor--Well,
    I wonder often what the Vintners buy
 One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

XCVI.

Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
 That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
    The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
 Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

XCVII.

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
 One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
    To which the fainting Traveler might spring,
 As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

XCVIII.

Would but some winged Angel ere too late
 Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
    And make the stern Recorder otherwise
 Enregister, or quite obliterate!

XCIX.

Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
 To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
    Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
 Re-mold it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

C.

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again--
 How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
    How oft hereafter rising look for us
 Through this same Garden--and for one in vain!

CI.

And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
 Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
    And in your joyous errand reach the spot
 Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!

TAMAM.