General Poetry Lounge

• #15 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 24 Nov, 2014 10:13
• <6>Professor Cowell.
  
  With regard to the present Translation. The original Rubaiyat (as,
   missing an Arabic Guttural, these Tetrastichs are more musically
   called) are independent Stanzas, consisting each of four Lines of
   equal, though varied, Prosody; sometimes all rhyming, but oftener (as
   here imitated) the third line a blank. Somewhat as in the Greek
   Alcaic, where the penultimate line seems to lift and suspend the Wave
   that falls over in the last. As usual with such kind of Oriental
   Verse, the Rubaiyat follow one another according to Alphabetic
   Rhyme--a strange succession of Grave and Gay. Those here selected are
   strung into something of an Eclogue, with perhaps a less than equal
   proportion of the "Drink and make-merry," which (genuine or not)
   recurs over-frequently in the Original. Either way, the Result is sad
   enough: saddest perhaps when most ostentatiously merry: more apt to
   move Sorrow than Anger toward the old Tentmaker, who, after vainly
   endeavoring to unshackle his Steps from Destiny, and to catch some
   authentic Glimpse of TO-MORROW, fell back upon TO-DAY (which has
   outlasted so many To-morrows!) as the only Ground he had got to stand
   upon, however momentarily slipping from under his Feet.
  
  [From the Third Edition.]
  
  While the second Edition of this version of Omar was preparing,
   Monsieur Nicolas, French Consul at Resht, published a very careful and
   very good Edition of the Text, from a lithograph copy at Teheran,
   comprising 464 Rubaiyat, with translation and notes of his own.
  
  Mons. Nicolas, whose Edition has reminded me of several things, and
   instructed me in others, does not consider Omar to be the material
   Epicurean that I have literally taken him for, but a Mystic, shadowing
   the Deity under the figure of Wine, Wine-bearer, &c., as Hafiz is
   supposed to do; in short, a Sufi Poet like Hafiz and the rest.
  
  I cannot see reason to alter my opinion, formed as it was more than a
   dozen years ago when Omar was first shown me by one to whom I am
   indebted for all I know of Oriental, and very much of other,
   literature. He admired Omar's Genius so much, that he would gladly
   have adopted any such Interpretation of his meaning as Mons. Nicolas'
   if he could.<7>  That he could not, appears by his Paper in the
   Calcutta Review already so largely quoted; in which he argues from the
   Poems themselves, as well as from what records remain of the Poet's
   Life.
  
    <7> Perhaps would have edited the Poems himself some years ago. He
     may now as little approve of my Version on one side, as of Mons.
     Nicolas' Theory on the other.
  
  And if more were needed to disprove Mons. Nicolas' Theory, there is
   the Biographical Notice which he himself has drawn up in direct
   contradiction to the Interpretation of the Poems given in his Notes.
   (See pp. 13-14 of his Preface.)  Indeed I hardly knew poor Omar was so
   far gone till his Apologist informed me. For here we see that,
   whatever were the Wine that Hafiz drank and sang, the veritable Juice
   of the Grape it was which Omar used, not only when carousing with his
   friends, but (says Mons. Nicolas) in order to excite himself to that
   pitch of Devotion which others reached by cries and "hurlemens."  And
   yet, whenever Wine, Wine-bearer, &c., occur in the Text--which is
   often enough--Mons. Nicolas carefully annotates "Dieu," "La Divinite,"
   &c.: so carefully indeed that one is tempted to think that he was
   indoctrinated by the Sufi with whom he read the Poems. (Note to Rub.
   ii. p. 8.)  A Persian would naturally wish to vindicate a
   distinguished Countryman; and a Sufi to enroll him in his own sect,
   which already comprises all the chief Poets of Persia.
  
  What historical Authority has Mons. Nicolas to show that Omar gave
  himself up "avec passion a l'etude de la philosophie des Soufis"?
   (Preface, p. xiii.)  The Doctrines of Pantheism, Materialism,
   Necessity, &c., were not peculiar to the Sufi; nor to Lucretius before
   them; nor to Epicurus before him; probably the very original
   Irreligion of Thinking men from the first; and very likely to be the
   spontaneous growth of a Philosopher living in an Age of social and
   political barbarism, under shadow of one of the Two and Seventy
   Religions supposed to divide the world. Von Hammer (according to
   Sprenger's Oriental Catalogue) speaks of Omar as "a Free-thinker, and
   a great opponent of Sufism;" perhaps because, while holding much of
   their Doctrine, he would not pretend to any inconsistent severity of
   morals. Sir W. Ouseley has written a note to something of the same
  effect on the fly-leaf of the Bodleian MS. And in two Rubaiyat of
   Mons. Nicolas' own Edition Suf and Sufi are both disparagingly named.
  
  No doubt many of these Quatrains seem unaccountable unless mystically
   interpreted; but many more as unaccountable unless literally. Were
   the Wine spiritual, for instance, how wash the Body with it when dead?
   Why make cups of the dead clay to be filled with--"La Divinite," by
   some succeeding Mystic? Mons. Nicolas himself is puzzled by some
   "bizarres" and "trop Orientales" allusions and images--"d'une
   sensualite quelquefois revoltante" indeed--which "les convenances" do
   not permit him to translate; but still which the reader cannot but
   refer to "La Divinite."<8>  No doubt also many of the Quatrains in the
   Teheran, as in the Calcutta, Copies, are spurious; such Rubaiyat being
   the common form of Epigram in Persia. But this, at best, tells as
   much one way as another; nay, the Sufi, who may be considered the
   Scholar and Man of Letters in Persia, would be far more likely than
   the careless Epicure to interpolate what favours his own view of the
   Poet. I observed that very few of the more mystical Quatrains are in
   the Bodleian MS., which must be one of the oldest, as dated at Shiraz,
   A.H. 865, A.D. 1460. And this, I think, especially distinguishes Omar
   (I cannot help calling him by his--no, not Christian--familiar name)
   from all other Persian Poets: That, whereas with them the Poet is lost
   in his Song, the Man in Allegory and Abstraction; we seem to have the
   Man--the Bon-homme--Omar himself, with all his Humours and Passions,
   as frankly before us as if we were really at Table with him, after the
   Wine had gone round.
  
    <8> A note to Quatrain 234 admits that, however clear the mystical
     meaning of such Images must be to Europeans, they are not quoted
     without "rougissant" even by laymen in Persia--"Quant aux termes de
     tendresse qui commencent ce quatrain, comme tant d'autres dans ce
     recueil, nos lecteurs, habitues maintenant a 1'etrangete des
     expressions si souvent employees par Kheyam pour rendre ses pensees
     sur l'amour divin, et a la singularite des images trop orientales,
     d'une sensualite quelquefois revoltante, n'auront pas de peine a se
     persuader qu'il s'agit de la Divinite, bien que cette conviction
     soit vivement discutee par les moullahs musulmans, et meme par
     beaucoup de laiques, qui rougissent veritablement d'une pareille
     licence de leur compatriote a 1'egard des choses spirituelles."
  
  I must say that I, for one, never wholly believed in the Mysticism of
   Hafiz. It does not appear there was any danger in holding and singing
   Sufi Pantheism, so long as the Poet made his Salaam to Mohammed at the
   beginning and end of his Song. Under such conditions Jelaluddin,
   Jami, Attar, and others sang; using Wine and Beauty indeed as Images
   to illustrate, not as a Mask to hide, the Divinity they were
   celebrating. Perhaps some Allegory less liable to mistake or abuse
   had been better among so inflammable a People: much more so when, as
   some think with Hafiz and Omar, the abstract is not only likened to,
   but identified with, the sensual Image; hazardous, if not to the
   Devotee himself, yet to his weaker Brethren; and worse for the Profane
   in proportion as the Devotion of the Initiated grew warmer. And all
   for what? To be tantalized with Images of sensual enjoyment which
   must be renounced if one would approximate a God, who according to the
   Doctrine, is Sensual Matter as well as Spirit, and into whose Universe
   one expects unconsciously to merge after Death, without hope of any
   posthumous Beatitude in another world to compensate for all one's self-
   denial in this. Lucretius' blind Divinity certainly merited, and
   probably got, as much self-sacrifice as this of the Sufi; and the
   burden of Omar's Song--if not "Let us eat"--is assuredly--"Let us
   drink, for To-morrow we die!"  And if Hafiz meant quite otherwise by a
   similar language, he surely miscalculated when he devoted his Life and
   Genius to so equivocal a Psalmody as, from his Day to this, has been
   said and sung by any rather than spiritual Worshippers.
  
  However, as there is some traditional presumption, and certainly the
   opinion of some learned men, in favour of Omar's being a Sufi--and
   even something of a Saint--those who please may so interpret his Wine
   and Cup-bearer. On the other hand, as there is far more historical
   certainty of his being a Philosopher, of scientific Insight and
   Ability far beyond that of the Age and Country he lived in; of such
   moderate worldly Ambition as becomes a Philosopher, and such moderate
   wants as rarely satisfy a Debauchee; other readers may be content to
   believe with me that, while the Wine Omar celebrates is simply the
   Juice of the Grape, he bragg'd more than he drank of it, in very
   defiance perhaps of that Spiritual Wine which left its Votaries sunk
   in Hypocrisy or Disgust.
  
• 
  
• #16 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 24 Nov, 2014 10:14
• Edward J. Fitzgerald
  
  First Edition
  
  I.
  
  Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
   Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
      And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
   The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
  
  II.
  
  Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
   I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
      "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
   Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
  
  III.
  
  And, as the **** crew, those who stood before
   The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door.
      You know how little while we have to stay,
   And, once departed, may return no more."
  
  IV.
  
  Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
   The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
      Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
   Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
  
  V.
  
  Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
   And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
      But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
   And still a Garden by the Water blows.
  
  VI.
  
  And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
   High piping Pelevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
      Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
   That yellow Cheek of hers to'incarnadine.
  
  VII.
  
  Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
   The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
      The Bird of Time has but a little way
   To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
  
  VIII.
  
  And look--a thousand Blossoms with the Day
   Woke--and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
      And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
   Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
  
  IX.
  
  But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
   Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:
      Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
   Or Hatim Tai cry Supper--heed them not.
  
  X.
  
  With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
   That just divides the desert from the sown,
      Where name of Slave and Sultan scarce is known,
   And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne.
  
  XI.
  
  Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
   A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and Thou
      Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
  And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
  
  XII.
  
  "How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"--think some:
   Others--"How blest the Paradise to come!"
      Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
   Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
  
  XIII.
  
  Look to the Rose that blows about us--"Lo,
   Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
      At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
   Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
  
  XIV.
  
  The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
   Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
      Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
   Lighting a little Hour or two--is gone.
  
  XV.
  
  And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
   And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
      Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
   As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
  
  XVI.
  
  Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
   Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
      How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
   Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
  
  XVII.
  
  They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
   The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
      And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
   Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
  
  XVIII.
  
  I sometimes think that never blows so red
   The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
      That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
   Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
  
  XIX.
  
  And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
   Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean--
      Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
   From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
  
  XX.
  
  Ah! my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
   TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears-
      To-morrow?--Why, To-morrow I may be
  Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
  
  XXI.
  
  Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best
   That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
      Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
   And one by one crept silently to Rest.
  
  XXII.
  
  And we, that now make merry in the Room
   They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
      Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
   Descend, ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
  
  XXIII.
  
  Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
   Before we too into the Dust Descend;
      Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
   Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and--sans End!
  
  XXIV.
  
  Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
   And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,
      A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
   "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
  
  XXV.
  
  Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
   Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
      Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
   Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
  
  XXVI.
  
  Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
   To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
      One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
   The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
  
  XXVII.
  
  Myself when young did eagerly frequent
   Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
      About it and about: but evermore
   Came out by the same Door as in I went.
  
  XXVIII.
  
  With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
   And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
      And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
  "I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
  
  XXIX.
  
  Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
   Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
      And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
   I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.
  
  XXX.
  
  What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
   And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
      Another and another Cup to drown
   The Memory of this Impertinence!
  
  XXXI.
  
  Up from Earth's Centre through the seventh Gate
   I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
      And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
   But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
  
  XXXII.
  
  There was a Door to which I found no Key:
   There was a Veil past which I could not see:
      Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE
   There seemed--and then no more of THEE and ME.
  
• 
  
• #17 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 24 Nov, 2014 10:15
• XXXIII.
  
  Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
   Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
      Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
   And--"A blind understanding!" Heav'n replied.
  
  XXXIV.
  
  Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn
   My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:
      And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live,
   Drink!--for once dead you never shall return."
  
  XXXV.
  
  I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
   Articulation answer'd, once did live,
      And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'd
   How many Kisses might it take--and give.
  
  XXXVI.
  
  For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
   I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
      And with its all obliterated Tongue
   It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
  
  XXXVII.
  
  Ah, fill the Cup:--what boots it to repeat
   How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
      Unborn TO-MORROW and dead YESTERDAY,
   Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!
  
  XXXVIII.
  
  One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
   One moment, of the Well of Life to taste--
      The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
   Starts for the dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!
  
  XXXIX.
  
  How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit
   Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
      Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
   Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
  
  XL.
  
  You know, my Friends, how long since in my House
   For a new Marriage I did make Carouse:
      Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
   And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
  
  XLI.
  
  For "IS" and "IS-NOT" though with Rule and Line,
   And, "UP-AND-DOWN" without, I could define,
      I yet in all I only cared to know,
   Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
  
  XLII.
  
  And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
   Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape,
      Bearing a vessel on his Shoulder; and
   He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
  
  XLIII.
  
  The Grape that can with Logic absolute
   The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
      The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
   Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
  
  XLIV.
  
  The mighty Mahmud, the victorious Lord,
   That all the misbelieving and black Horde
      Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
   Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.
  
  XLV.
  
  But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
   The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
      And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
   Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
  
  XLVI.
  
  For in and out, above, about, below,
   'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
      Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
   Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
  
  XLVII.
  
  And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
   End in the Nothing all Things end in--Yes-
      Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
   Thou shalt be--Nothing--Thou shalt not be less.
  
  XLVIII.
  
  While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
   With old Khayyam the Ruby Vintage drink:
      And when the Angel with his darker Draught
   Draws up to thee--take that, and do not shrink.
  
  XLVIX.
  
  'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
   Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
      Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
   And one by one back in the Closet lays.
  
  L.
  
  The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
   But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
      And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
   He knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!
  
  LI.
  
  The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
   Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
      Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
   Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
  
  LII.
  
  And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
   Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
      Lift not thy hands to IT for help--for It
   Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
  
  LIII.
  
  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.
  
  LIV.
  
  I tell Thee this--When, starting from the Goal,
   Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
      Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
   In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul
  
  LV.
  
  The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
   It clings my Being--let the Sufi flout;
      Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
   That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
  
  LVI.
  
  And this I know: whether the one True Light,
   Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
      One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
   Better than in the Temple lost outright.
  
  LVII.
  
  Oh Thou who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
   Beset the Road I was to wander in,
      Thou wilt not with Predestination round
   Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?
  
  LVIII.
  
  Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
   And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
      For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
   Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give--and take!
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  
  KUZA--NAMA. ("Book of Pots")
  
  LIX.
  
  Listen again. One Evening at the Close
   Of Ramazan, ere the better Moon arose,
      In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
   With the clay Population round in Rows.
  
  LX.
  
  And strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
   Some could articulate, while others not:
      And suddenly one more impatient cried--
  "Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
  
  LXI.
  
  Then said another--"Surely not in vain
   My substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
      That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
   Should stamp me back to common Earth again."
  
  LXII.
  
  Another said--"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy
   Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
      Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love
   And Fansy, in an after Rage destroy!"
  
  LXIII.
  
  None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
   A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
      "They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
   What? did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
  
  LXIV.
  
  Said one--"Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
   And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
      They talk of some strict Testing of us--Pish!
   He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
  
  LXV.
  
  Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
   "My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
      But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
  Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!"
  
  LXVI.
  
  So, while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
   One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
      And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
  Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  
  LXVII.
  
  Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
   And wash my Body whence the life has died,
      And in a Windingsheet of Vineleaf wrapt,
   So bury me by some sweet Gardenside.
  
  LXVIII.
  
  That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
   Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
      As not a True Believer passing by
   But shall be overtaken unaware.
  
  LXIX.
  
  Indeed, the Idols I have loved so long
   Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
      Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
   And sold my Reputation for a Song.
  
  LXX.
  
  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 a-pieces tore.
  
  LXXI.
  
  And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
   And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour--well,
      I often wonder what the Vintners buy
   One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
  
  LXXII.
  
  Alas, 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!
  
  LXXIII.
  
  Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
   To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
      Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
   Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
  
• 
  
• #18 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 24 Nov, 2014 10:17
• LXXIV.
  
  Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
   The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
      How oft hereafter rising shall she look
   Through this same Garden after me--in vain!
  
  LXXV.
  
  And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
   Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on The Grass,
      And in Thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
   Where I made one--turn down an empty Glass!
  
  TAMAM SHUD.
  
  Fifth Edition
  
  I.
  
  WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
   The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
      Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
   The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
  
  II.
  
  Before the phantom of False morning died,
  Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
      "When all the Temple is prepared within,
   "Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?"
  
  III.
  
  And, as the **** crew, those who stood before
   The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
      "You know how little while we have to stay,
   And, once departed, may return no more."
  
  IV.
  
  Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
   The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
      Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
   Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
  
  V.
  
  Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
   And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
      But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
   And many a Garden by the Water blows.
  
  VI.
  
  And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
   High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
      "Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
   That sallow cheek of hers to' incarnadine.
  
  VII.
  
  Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
   Your Winter garment of Repentance fling:
      The Bird of Time has but a little way
   To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
  
  VIII.
  
  Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
   Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
      The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
   The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
  
  IX.
  
  Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say:
   Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
      And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
   Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
  
  X.
  
  Well, let it take them! What have we to do
   With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
      Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
   Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you.
  
  XI.
  
  With me along the strip of Herbage strown
   That just divides the desert from the sown,
      Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
  And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
  
  XII.
  
  A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
   A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
      Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
  Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
  
  XIII.
  
  Some for the Glories of This World; and some
   Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
      Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
   Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
  
  XIV.
  
  Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
   Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
      At once the silken tassel of my Purse
   Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
  
  XV.
  
  And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
   And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
      Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
   As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
  
  XVI.
  
  The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
   Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
      Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
   Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
  
  XVII.
  
  Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
   Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
      How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
   Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
  
  XVIII.
  
  They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
   The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
      And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
   Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
  
  XIX.
  
  I sometimes think that never blows so red
   The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
      That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
   Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
  
  XX.
  
  And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
   Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
      Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
   From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
  
  XXI.
  
  Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
   TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears:
      To-morrow--Why, To-morrow I may be
  Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
  
  XXII.
  
  For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
   That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
      Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
   And one by one crept silently to rest.
  
  XXIII.
  
  And we, that now make merry in the Room
   They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
      Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
   Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
  
  XXIV.
  
  Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
   Before we too into the Dust descend;
      Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
   Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
  
  XXV.
  
  Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
   And those that after some TO-MORROW stare,
      A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,
   "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
  
  XXVI.
  
  Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
   Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
      Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
   Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
  
  XXVII.
  
  Myself when young did eagerly frequent
   Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
      About it and about: but evermore
   Came out by the same door where in I went.
  
  XXVIII.
  
  With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
   And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
      And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
  "I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
  
  XXIX.
  
  Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
   Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
      And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
   I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
  
  XXX.
  
  What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
   And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
      Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
   Must drown the memory of that insolence!
  
  XXXI.
  
  Up from Earth's Center through the Seventh Gate
   I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
      And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
   But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
  
  XXXII.
  
  There was the Door to which I found no Key;
   There was the Veil through which I might not see:
      Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE
   There was--and then no more of THEE and ME.
  
  XXXIII.
  
  Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
   In flowing Purple, of their Lord Forlorn;
      Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
   And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
  
  XXXIV.
  
  Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind
   The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
      A lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
   As from Without--"THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!"
  
  XXXV.
  
  Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
   I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
      And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live,
   "Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
  
  XXXVI.
  
  I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
   Articulation answer'd, once did live,
      And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
   How many Kisses might it take--and give!
  
  XXXVII.
  
  For I remember stopping by the way
   To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
      And with its all-obliterated Tongue
   It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
  
  XXXVIII.
  
  And has not such a Story from of Old
   Down Man's successive generations roll'd
      Of such a clod of saturated Earth
   Cast by the Maker into Human mold?
  
  XXXIX.
  
  And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
   For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
      To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
   There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
  
  XL.
  
  As then the Tulip for her morning sup
   Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
      Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
   To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
  
  XLI.
  
  Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
   To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
      And lose your fingers in the tresses of
   The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
  
  XLII.
  
  And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
   End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
      Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY
   You were--TO-MORROW you shall not be less.
  
  XLIII.
  
  So when that Angel of the darker Drink
   At last shall find you by the river-brink,
      And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
   Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
  
  XLIV.
  
  Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
   And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
      Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
   In this clay carcass crippled to abide?
  
  XLV.
  
  'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
   A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
      The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
   Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
  
  XLVI.
  
  And fear not lest Existence closing your
   Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
      The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
   Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
  
  XLVII.
  
  When You and I behind the Veil are past,
   Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
      Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
   As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
  
  XLVIII.
  
  A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
   Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste--
      And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
   The NOTHING it set out from--Oh, make haste!
  
  XLIX.
  
  Would you that spangle of Existence spend
   About THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend!
      A Hair perhaps divides the False from True--
  And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
  
  L.
  
  A Hair perhaps 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;
  
  LI.
  
  Whose secret Presence through Creation's veins
   Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
      Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi and
   They change and perish all--but He remains;
  
  LII.
  
  A moment guessed--then back behind the Fold
   Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
      Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
   He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
  
  LIII.
  
  But if 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
   TO-MORROW, when You shall be You no more?
  
  LIV.
  
  Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
   Of This and That endeavor and dispute;
      Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
   Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
  
  LV.
  
  You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
   I made a Second Marriage in my house;
      Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
   And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
  
  LVI.
  
  For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
   And "UP-AND-DOWN" by Logic I define,
      Of all that one should care to fathom, I
   was never deep in anything but--Wine.
  
  LVII.
  
  Ah, by my Computations, People say,
   Reduce the Year to better reckoning?--Nay,
      'Twas only striking from the Calendar
   Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.
  
  LVIII.
  
  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!
  
  LIX.
  
  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;
  
  LX.
  
  The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord,
   That all the misbelieving and black Horde
      Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
   Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
  
• 
  
• #19 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 24 Nov, 2014 10:18
• 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.
  
• 
  
• #20 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 24 Nov, 2014 10:19
• 
  Notes
  
  [The references are, except in the first note only, to the stanzas of
   the Fifth edition.]
  
  (Stanza I.) Flinging a Stone into the Cup was the signal for "To
   Horse!" in the Desert.
  
  (II.) The "False Dawn"; Subhi Kazib, a transient Light on the Horizon
   about an hour before the Subhi sadik or True Dawn; a well-known
   Phenomenon in the East.
  
  (IV.) New Year. Beginning with the Vernal Equinox, it must be
  remembered; and (howsoever the old Solar Year is practically
   superseded by the clumsy Lunar Year that dates from the Mohammedan
   Hijra) still commemorated by a Festival that is said to have been
   appointed by the very Jamshyd whom Omar so often talks of, and whose
   yearly Calendar he helped to rectify.
  
  "The sudden approach and rapid advance of the Spring," says Mr.
   Binning, "are very striking. Before the Snow is well off the Ground,
   the Trees burst into Blossom, and the Flowers start from the Soil. At
   Naw Rooz (their New Year's Day) the Snow was lying in patches on the
   Hills and in the shaded Vallies, while the Fruit-trees in the Garden
   were budding beautifully, and green Plants and Flowers springing upon
   the Plains on every side--
  
    'And on old Hyems' Chin and icy Crown
      An odorous Chaplet of sweet Summer buds
      Is, as in mockery, set--'--
  
  Among the Plants newly appear'd I recognized some Acquaintances I had
   not seen for many a Year: among these, two varieties of the Thistle; a
   coarse species of the Daisy, like the Horse-gowan; red and white
   clover; the Dock; the blue Cornflower; and that vulgar Herb the
   Dandelion rearing its yellow crest on the Banks of the Water-courses."
   The Nightingale was not yet heard, for the Rose was not yet blown: but
   an almost identical Blackbird and Woodpecker helped to make up
   something of a North-country Spring.
  
  "The White Hand of Moses."  Exodus iv. 6; where Moses draws forth his
   Hand--not, according to the Persians, "leprous as Snow," but white, as
   our May-blossom in Spring perhaps. According to them also the Healing
   Power of Jesus resided in his Breath.
  
  (V.) Iram, planted by King Shaddad, and now sunk somewhere in the
   Sands of Arabia. Jamshyd's Seven-ring'd Cup was typical of the 7
   Heavens, 7 Planets, 7 Seas, &c., and was a Divining Cup.
  
  (VI.) Pehlevi, the old Heroic Sanskrit of Persia. Hafiz also speaks
   of the Nightingale's Pehlevi, which did not change with the People's.
  
  I am not sure if the fourth line refers to the Red Rose looking
   sickly, or to the Yellow Rose that ought to be Red; Red, White, and
   Yellow Roses all common in Persia. I think that Southey in his Common-
   Place Book, quotes from some Spanish author about the Rose being White
   till 10 o'clock; "Rosa Perfecta" at 2; and "perfecta incarnada" at 5.
  
  (X.) Rustum, the "Hercules" of Persia, and Zal his Father, whose
   exploits are among the most celebrated in the Shahnama. Hatim Tai, a
   well-known type of Oriental Generosity.
  
  (XIII.) A Drum--beaten outside a Palace.
  
  (XIV.) That is, the Rose's Golden Centre.
  
  (XVIII.) Persepolis: call'd also Takht-i-Jam-shyd--THE THRONE OF
   JAMSHYD, "King Splendid," of the mythical Peshdadian Dynasty, and
   supposed (according to the Shah-nama) to have been founded and built
   by him. Others refer it to the Work of the Genie King, Jan Ibn
   Jan--who also built the Pyramids--before the time of Adam.
  
  BAHRAM GUR.--Bahram of the Wild Ass--a Sassanian Sovereign--had also
   his Seven Castles (like the King of Bohemia!) each of a different
   Colour: each with a Royal Mistress within; each of whom tells him a
   Story, as told in one of the most famous Poems of Persia, written by
   Amir Khusraw: all these Sevens also figuring (according to Eastern
   Mysticism) the Seven Heavens; and perhaps the Book itself that Eighth,
   into which the mystical Seven transcend, and within which they
   revolve. The Ruins of Three of those Towers are yet shown by the
   Peasantry; as also the Swamp in which Bahram sunk, like the Master of
   Ravenswood, while pursuing his Gur.
  
    The Palace that to Heav'n his pillars threw,
     And Kings the forehead on his threshold drew--
       I saw the solitary Ringdove there,
     And "Coo, coo, coo," she cried; and "Coo, coo, coo."
  
  [Included in Nicolas's edition as No. 350 of the Rubaiyat, and also in
   Mr. Whinfield's translation.]
  
  This Quatrain Mr. Binning found, among several of Hafiz and others,
   inscribed by some stray hand among the ruins of Persepolis. The
   Ringdove's ancient Pehlevi Coo, Coo, Coo, signifies also in Persian
   "Where? Where? Where?"  In Attar's "Bird-parliament" she is reproved
   by the Leader of the Birds for sitting still, and for ever harping on
   that one note of lamentation for her lost Yusuf.
  
  Apropos of Omar's Red Roses in Stanza xix, I am reminded of an old
   English Superstition, that our Anemone Pulsatilla, or purple "Pasque
   Flower," (which grows plentifully about the Fleam Dyke, near
   Cambridge,) grows only where Danish Blood has been spilt.
  
  (XXI.) A thousand years to each Planet.
  
  (XXXI.) Saturn, Lord of the Seventh Heaven.
  
  (XXXII.) ME-AND-THEE: some dividual Existence or Personality distinct
   from the Whole.
  
  (XXXVII.) One of the Persian Poets--Attar, I think--has a pretty story
   about this. A thirsty Traveller dips his hand into a Spring of Water
   to drink from. By-and-by comes another who draws up and drinks from
   an earthen bowl, and then departs, leaving his Bowl behind him. The
   first Traveller takes it up for another draught; but is surprised to
   find that the same Water which had tasted sweet from his own hand
  tastes bitter from the earthen Bowl. But a Voice--from Heaven, I
   think--tells him the clay from which the Bowl is made was once Man;
   and, into whatever shape renew'd, can never lose the bitter flavour of
   Mortality.
  
  (XXXIX.) The custom of throwing a little Wine on the ground before
   drinking still continues in Persia, and perhaps generally in the East.
   Mons. Nicolas considers it "un signe de liberalite, et en meme temps
   un avertissement que le buveur doit vider sa coupe jusqu'a la derniere
   goutte."  Is it not more likely an ancient Superstition; a Libation to
   propitiate Earth, or make her an Accomplice in the illicit Revel? Or,
   perhaps, to divert the Jealous Eye by some sacrifice of superfluity,
   as with the Ancients of the West? With Omar we see something more is
   signified; the precious Liquor is not lost, but sinks into the ground
   to refresh the dust of some poor Wine-worshipper foregone.
  
  Thus Hafiz, copying Omar in so many ways: "When thou drinkest Wine
   pour a draught on the ground. Wherefore fear the Sin which brings to
   another Gain?"
  
  (XLIII.) According to one beautiful Oriental Legend, Azrael
   accomplishes his mission by holding to the nostril an Apple from the
   Tree of Life.
  
  This, and the two following Stanzas would have been withdrawn, as
   somewhat de trop, from the Text, but for advice which I least like to
   disregard.
  
  (LI.) From Mah to Mahi; from Fish to Moon.
  
  (LVI.) A Jest, of course, at his Studies. A curious mathematical
   Quatrain of Omar's has been pointed out to me; the more curious
   because almost exactly parallel'd by some Verses of Doctor Donne's,
   that are quoted in Izaak Walton's Lives! Here is Omar: "You and I are
   the image of a pair of compasses; though we have two heads (sc. our
   feet) we have one body; when we have fixed the centre for our circle,
   we bring our heads (sc. feet) together at the end."  Dr. Donne:
  
    If we be two, we two are so
        As stiff twin-compasses are two;
     Thy Soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
        To move, but does if the other do.
  
    And though thine in the centre sit,
        Yet when my other far does roam,
     Thine leans and hearkens after it,
        And rows erect as mine comes home.
  
    Such thou must be to me, who must
        Like the other foot obliquely run;
     Thy firmness makes my circle just,
        And me to end where I begun.
  
  (LIX.) The Seventy-two Religions supposed to divide the World,
   including Islamism, as some think: but others not.
  
  (LX.) Alluding to Sultan Mahmud's Conquest of India and its dark
   people.
  
  (LXVIII.) Fanusi khiyal, a Magic-lanthorn still used in India; the
   cylindrical Interior being painted with various Figures, and so
   lightly poised and ventilated as to revolve round the lighted Candle
   within.
  
  (LXX.) A very mysterious Line in the Original:
  
     O danad O danad O danad O--
  
  breaking off something like our Wood-pigeon's Note, which she is said
   to take up just where she left off.
  
  (LXXV.) Parwin and Mushtari--The Pleiads and Jupiter.
  
  (LXXXVII.) This Relation of Pot and Potter to Man and his Maker
   figures far and wide in the Literature of the World, from the time of
   the Hebrew Prophets to the present; when it may finally take the name
   of "Pot theism," by which Mr. Carlyle ridiculed Sterling's
   "Pantheism."  My Sheikh, whose knowledge flows in from all quarters,
   writes to me--
  
  "Apropos of old Omar's Pots, did I ever tell you the sentence I found
   in 'Bishop Pearson on the Creed'? 'Thus are we wholly at the disposal
   of His will, and our present and future condition framed and ordered
   by His free, but wise and just, decrees. Hath not the potter power
   over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and
   another unto dishonour? (Rom. ix. 21.)  And can that earth-artificer
   have a freer power over his brother potsherd (both being made of the
   same metal), than God hath over him, who, by the strange fecundity of
   His omnipotent power, first made the clay out of nothing, and then him
   out of that?'"
  
  And again--from a very different quarter--"I had to refer the other
   day to Aristophanes, and came by chance on a curious Speaking-pot
   story in the Vespae, which I had quite forgotten.
  
  "The Pot calls a bystander to be a witness to his bad treatment. The
   woman says, 'If, by Proserpine, instead of all this 'testifying'
   (comp. Cuddie and his mother in 'Old Mortality!') you would buy
  yourself a rivet, it would show more sense in you!'  The Scholiast
   explains echinus as"
  
  One more illustration for the oddity's sake from the "Autobiography of
   a Cornish Rector," by the late James Hamley Tregenna. 1871.
  
  "There was one odd Fellow in our Company--he was so like a Figure in
   the 'Pilgrim's Progress' that Richard always called him the
   'ALLEGORY,' with a long white beard--a rare Appendage in those
   days--and a Face the colour of which seemed to have been baked in,
   like the Faces one used to see on Earthenware Jugs. In our Country-
   dialect Earthenware is called 'Clome'; so the Boys of the Village used
   to shout out after him--'Go back to the Potter, Old Clomeface, and get
   baked over again.'  For the 'Allegory,' though shrewd enough in most
   things, had the reputation of being 'saift-baked,' i.e., of weak
   intellect."
  
  (XC.) At the Close of the Fasting Month, Ramazan (which makes the
   Mussulman unhealthy and unamiable), the first Glimpse of the New Moon
   (who rules their division of the Year) is looked for with the utmost
   Anxiety, and hailed with Acclamation. Then it is that the Porter's
   Knot maybe heard--toward the Cellar. Omar has elsewhere a pretty
   Quatrain about the same Moon--
  
  "Be of Good Cheer--the sullen Month will die,
     And a young Moon requite us by and by:
       Look how the Old one meagre, bent, and wan
     With Age and Fast, is fainting from the Sky!"
  
            The End
  
• 
  
• #21 Reply
  Posted by Anne Cline on 24 Nov, 2014 12:28
• Thank you for sharing this interesting poem and including the interpretation.
• 
  
• #22 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 26 Nov, 2014 22:10
• you are welcome.
  
  I will be making more contributions in the comings days.
  
  
  This thread has the potential to be huge down the road.
• 
  
• #23 Reply
  Posted by Anne Cline on 30 Nov, 2014 18:27
• Hearts Journey
  
  When one soul finds another fair,
  Curiosity is piqued - love in the air.
  
  The journey of heart, of mind begins.
  A burning fire swells within.
  
  And if both souls-draw together.
  Upon a path they'll walk-forever.
  
  A journey begins, if their love does awake.
  Only if both hearts, do not forsake.
  
  But travel along, side by side keeping strong.
  The heart of the other,  when their day has been long.
  
  Only when each one takes time to partake,
  In the joys and the hardships that life will sure make.
  
  These two souls bond closer-with each day that's past.
  Taking comfort in building a love that will last.
  
  It is trust, it is honor and respect there's no doubt.
  It's a choice that we make-nothing to figure out.
  
  As the years stack up slowly,then quickly and when,
  The journey of one ends and then they transcend.
  
  But one soul is left on the path they did forge,
  Separated now, by deaths mighty gorge.
  
  The soul that's remaining feels no hope left in sight.
  The path seems so narrow, and dark as the night.
  
  Then through the black-hopeless-seeming abyss,
  Takes hold the memory-of your tender kiss.
  
  Suddenly the trail where your broke down on all fours,
  Seems wider and brighter than ever before.
  
  For your heart shared a journey most patient and fine.
  And the truest of Love, it does last for all time.
  
  So you lift yourself up and return to the path,
  For this is what we are to do against wrath.
  
  The Love that you share it endures till the end.
  No passing away-can take memories my friend.
  
  ~Anne Cline
  
• 
  
• #24 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 02 Dec, 2014 14:11
• this poem is nothing short of amazing.
  
  
  
  awesome creativity.
• 
  
• #25 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 02 Dec, 2014 14:42
• 
• 
  
• #26 Reply
  Posted by Anne Cline on 03 Dec, 2014 12:38
• Acceptance
  
  A friend of mine was writing,
  Of clearing out some friends.
  He spoke of judging them by actions,
  As words are just tone blends.
  
  These words did seem to many wise,
  The thumbs they all popped up.
  But then it started me to thinking,
  And really woke me up.
  
  The compassion that this posting lacked,
  Like friends are just dismissed.
  But eloquently put of course,
  Was missing the whole gist.
  
  For life is ups and downs we know,
  Not rosey all the time.
  And friends are not disposable,
  If you have a clear frame of mind.
  
  I thought back to other posts I've read,
  How the joyous are judged as braggards.
  Seems no matter what people say,
  Someone is always throwing daggers.
  
  So before you cast your judgments,
  Analyzing all your friends.
  Consider the path that they walk on,
  Perhaps theirs is now on a bend.
  
  Maybe they need a kind ear,
  And not one to pick them apart.
  Stop trying to fix every problem.
  Just listen to them with your heart.
  
  Casting away human beings,
  Is a bold move to make in one's life.
  You miss out on important lessons,
  Have to endure considerable strife.
  
  So I had to express my sad feelings,
  That a person would lose someone dear.
  Because of judgement and perceptions,
  And simply refusing to hear.
  
  Hear with the soul what their saying,
  Let the person know you are there.
  That person may be struggling,
  There are hardships in life we all bear.
  
  If we expected each human being,
  To be perfect and beaming with light.
  There'd be not a single friendship on earth, dear-
  That's a lonely and pitiful sight.
  
  ~Anne Cline
  
  
  
• 
  
• #27 Reply
  Posted by Anne Cline on 04 Dec, 2014 10:19
• Widows Lament
  
  My husband died on Christmas Eve,
  His suffering long endured.
  Myself and son's we prayed and prayed,
  And hoped that he'd be cured.
  
  I tried to stay steadfast and strong,
  As I watched my family break.
  The tears that filled my children's eyes,
  Was more than I could take.
  
  So numb of soul-and heart and mind,
  I prod each one along.
  Try to be the anchor,
  So that they can all cling on.
  
  Inside there grew a coldness,
  Where once, a fair heart had been.
  Aware of only sadness,
  The blackness grew within.
  
  And so I pushed myself to do,
  The things I'd always dreamed.
  Follow the light inside my soul,
  As impossible as it seemed.
  
  And as I tried to push my heart,
  Into the world of the living.
  I found the place was also dark,
  Cruel and unforgiving.
  
  And so I realized at once,
  To settle back, and then.
  Proceed with much more caution-
  Where my trust had always been.
  
  The journey now I take it slow,
  Still shrouded by this veil.
  But I feed that inner light within.
  Cause it will never fail.
  
  ~Anne Cline
• 
  
• #28 Reply
  Posted by Clay Death on 04 Dec, 2014 21:05
• fantastic poems Anne.
  
  your creativity and your ability to create magic with words is amazing.
  
  
  
• 
  
• #29 Reply
  Posted by Anne Cline on 05 Dec, 2014 11:54
• Miles Between
  
  Many people live far away,
  From the people who they love each day.
  
  Miles of land, of trees and sea,
  Prevent you-from being next to me.
  
  The bonds of love they keep us close,
  Though miles between-we think of most.
  
  We use what time we can and do,
  Use text to chat and cell phones too.
  
  Video clips and photos shared,
  While closeness, we do need-is spared.
  
  Now and then we drive and fly,
  Embrace in hugs-sit close by.
  
  Catch up on moments we were lacking,
  Sit up too late-mindlessly snacking.
  
  Then like a flash, the days are past,
  Though time speeds on, the memories last.
  
  No price applies to time well spent.
  For loved ones sure are Heaven sent.
  
  ~Anne Cline
  
•