Classic Poem

1

A S TORY

From the solitary desert
Up to Baghdad came a simple
Arab; there amid the rout
Grew bewildered of the countless
People, hither, thither, running,
Coming, going, meeting, parting,
Clamor, clatter, and confusion,
All about him and about.

Travel-wearied, hubbub-dizzy,
Would the simple Arab fain
Get to sleep — " But then, on waking,
" How, " quoth he, " amid so many
" Waking, know myself again? "

So, to make the matter certain,
Strung a gourd about his ankle,
And, into a corner creeping,
Baghdad and himself and people
Soon were blotted from his brain.

But one thaTheard him and divined
His purpose, slily crept behind;
From the sleeper's ankle clipping,
Round his own the pumpkin tied,
And laid him down to sleep beside.

By and by the Arab, waking,
Looks directly for his signal —
Sees it on another's ankle —
Cries aloud, " Oh, good-for-nothing
" Rascal to perplex me so!
" That by you I am bewildered,
" Whether I be I or no!
" If I — the pumpkin why on you?
" If you — then where am I, and who? "

2

The P OET T AKES C OUNSEL W ITH H IMSELF

And yet, how long, O Jami, stringing verse,
Pearl after pearl, on that old harp of thine?
Year after year attuning some new song,
The breath of some old story? Life is gone,
And that last song is not the last; my soul
Is spent — and still a story to be told!
And I, whose back is crooked as the harp
I still keep tuning through the night till day!
That harp untuned by time — the harper's hand
Shaking with age — how shall the harper's hand
Repair its cunning, and the sweet old harp
Be modulated as of old? Methinks
'Twere time to break and cast it in the fire;
The vain old harp, that, breathing from its strings
No music more to charm the ears of men,
May, from its scented ashes, as it burns,
Breathe resignation to the harper's soul,
Now that his body looks to dissolution.

3

O F S ALAMAN

When night came, that releases man from toil,
He played the chess of social intercourse;
Prepared his banquet-hall like Paradise,
Summoned his houri-faced musicians,
And when his brain grew warm with wine, the veil
Flung off him of reserve: taking a harp,
Between its dry string and his finger quick
Struck fire: or catching up a lute, as if
A child for chastisement, would pinch its ear
To wailing that should aged eyes make weep.
Now like the nightingale he sang alone;
Now with another lip to lip; and now
Together blending voice and instrument;
And thus with his associates nighThe spent.

4

S ALAMAN C OMES TO THE S EA

Six days Salaman on the camel rode,
... and on the seventh
He halted on the seashore; on the shore
Of a great sea that, reaching like a floor
Of rolling firmament below the sky's,
From Kaf to Kaf, to Gau and Mahi down
Descended, and its stars were living eyes.
The face of it was as it were a range
Of moving mountains; or a countless host
Of camels trooping tumultuously up,
Host over host, and foaming at the lip.
Within, innumerable glittering things
Sharp as cut jewels, to the sharpest eye
Scarce visible, hither and thither slipping,
As silver scissors slice a blue brocade.