The man who shot his arrow from the west Made empty roads of air; yet have I thought Our life was happier until we brought This cold one of the skies to rule the nest.

Lx.x.xV

Run! follow, follow happiness, the maid Whose laughter is the laughing waterfall; Run! call to her--but if no maiden call, 'Tis something to have loved the flying shade.

Lx.x.xVI

You strut in piety the while you take That pilgrimage to Mecca. Now beware, For starving relatives befoul the air, And curse, O fool, the threshold you forsake.

Lx.x.xVII

How man is made! He staggers at the voice, The little voice that leads you to the land Of virtue; but, on hearing the command To lead a giant army, will rejoice.

Lx.x.xVIII

Behold the cup whereon your slave has trod; That is what every cup is falling to.

Your slave--remember that he lives by you, While in the form of him we bow to G.o.d.

Lx.x.xIX

The lowliest of the people is the lord Who knows not where each day to make his bed, Whose crown is kept upon the royal head By that poor naked minister, the sword.

XC

Which is the tyrant? say you. Well, 'tis he That has the vine-leaf strewn among his hair And will deliver countries to the care Of courtesans--but I am vague, you see.

XCI

The dwellers of the city will oppress Your days: the lion, a fight-thirsty fool, The fox who wears the robe of men that rule-- So run with me towards the wilderness.

XCII

Our wilderness will be the laughing land, Where nuts are hung for us, where nodding peas Are wild enough to press about our knees, And water fills the hollow of our hand.

XCIII

My village is the loneliness, and I Am as the travellers through the Syrian sand, That for a moment see the warning hand Of one who breasted up the rock, their spy.

XCIV

Where is the valiance of the folk who sing These valiant stories of the world to come?

Which they describe, forsooth! as if it swum In air and anch.o.r.ed with a yard of string.

XCV

Two merchantmen decided they would battle, To prove at last who sold the finest wares; And while Mahomet shrieked his call to prayers, The true Messiah waved his wooden rattle.

XCVI

Perchance the world is nothing, is a dream, And every noise the dreamland people say We sedulously note, and we and they May be the shadows flung by what we seem.

XCVII

Zohair the poet sang of loveliness Which is the flight of things. Oh, meditate Upon the sorrows of our earthly state, For what is lovely we may not possess.

XCVIII

Heigho! the splendid air is full of wings, And they will take us to the--friend, be wise For if you navigate among the skies You too may reach the subterranean kings.

XCIX

Now fear the rose! You travel to the gloom Of which the roses sing and sing so fair, And, but for them, you'd have a certain share In life: your name be read upon the tomb.

C

There is a tower of silence, and the bell Moves up--another man is made to be.

For certain years they move in company, But you, when fails your song do fail as well.

CI

No sword will summon Death, and he will stay For neither helm nor shield his falling rod.

We are the crooked alphabet of G.o.d, And He will read us ere he wipes away.

CII

How strange that we, perambulating dust, Should be the vessels of eternal fire, That such unfading pa.s.sion of desire Should be within our fading bodies thrust.

CIII