The secret of the day and night is in
The constellations, which forever spin
Around each other in the comet-dust—
The comet-dust and humankind are kin.
But whether of dust or fire or foam, the glaive
Of Allah cleaves the planet and the wave
Of this mysterious Heaven-Sea of life,
And lo! we have the Cradle of the Grave.
The Grave and Cradle, the untiring twain,
Who in the markets of this narrow lane
Bordered of darkness, ever give and take
In equal measure—what's the loss or gain?
Ay, like the circles which the sun doth spin
Of gossamer, we end as we begin;
Our feet are on the heads of those that pass,
But ever their graves around our Cradles grin.
Or sleep—and shall it be eternal sleep
Somewhither in the bosom of the deep
Infinities of cosmic dust, or here
Where gracile cypresses the vigil keep?
Upon the threshing-floor of life I burn
Beside the Winnower a word to learn;
And only this: Man's of the soil and sun
And to the soil and sun he shall return.
And like a spider's house or sparrow's nest,
The Sultan's palace, though upon the crest
Of glory's mountain, soon or late must go:
Every abode to ruin is addrest.
So too the creeds of man: the one prevails
Until the other comes; and this one fails
When that one triumphs; ay, the lonesome world
Will always want the latest fairy-tales.
How like a door the knowledge we attain,
Which door is on the bourne of the Inane;
It opens and our nothingness is closed—
It closes and in darkness we remain.
Hither we come unknowing, hence we go;
Unknowing we are messaged to and fro;
And yet we think we know all things of earth
And sky—the sun and stars we think we know.
I heard it whispered in the cryptic streets
Where every sage the same dumb shadow meets:
“We are but words fallen from the lips of time
Which God, that we might understand, repeats.”
Another said: “The creeping worm hath shown
In her discourse on human flesh and bone
That man was once the bed on which she slept—
The walking dust was once a thing of stone.”
And still another: “We are coins which fade
In circulation, coins which Allah made
To cheat Iblis: the good and bad alike
Are spent by Fate upon a passing shade.”
The Earth then spake: “My children silent be;
The same to God the camel and the flea:
He makes a mess of me to nourish you,
Then makes a mess of you to nourish me.”
Now, mosques and churches—even a Kaaba Stone,
Korans and Bibles—even a martyr's bone—
All these and more my heart can tolerate,
For my religion's Love, and love alone.
To humankind, O Brother, consecrate
Thy heart, and shun the hundred sects that prate
About the things they little know about—
Let all receive thy pity, not thy hate.
The constellations, which forever spin
Around each other in the comet-dust—
The comet-dust and humankind are kin.
But whether of dust or fire or foam, the glaive
Of Allah cleaves the planet and the wave
Of this mysterious Heaven-Sea of life,
And lo! we have the Cradle of the Grave.
The Grave and Cradle, the untiring twain,
Who in the markets of this narrow lane
Bordered of darkness, ever give and take
In equal measure—what's the loss or gain?
Ay, like the circles which the sun doth spin
Of gossamer, we end as we begin;
Our feet are on the heads of those that pass,
But ever their graves around our Cradles grin.
Or sleep—and shall it be eternal sleep
Somewhither in the bosom of the deep
Infinities of cosmic dust, or here
Where gracile cypresses the vigil keep?
Upon the threshing-floor of life I burn
Beside the Winnower a word to learn;
And only this: Man's of the soil and sun
And to the soil and sun he shall return.
And like a spider's house or sparrow's nest,
The Sultan's palace, though upon the crest
Of glory's mountain, soon or late must go:
Every abode to ruin is addrest.
So too the creeds of man: the one prevails
Until the other comes; and this one fails
When that one triumphs; ay, the lonesome world
Will always want the latest fairy-tales.
How like a door the knowledge we attain,
Which door is on the bourne of the Inane;
It opens and our nothingness is closed—
It closes and in darkness we remain.
Hither we come unknowing, hence we go;
Unknowing we are messaged to and fro;
And yet we think we know all things of earth
And sky—the sun and stars we think we know.
I heard it whispered in the cryptic streets
Where every sage the same dumb shadow meets:
“We are but words fallen from the lips of time
Which God, that we might understand, repeats.”
Another said: “The creeping worm hath shown
In her discourse on human flesh and bone
That man was once the bed on which she slept—
The walking dust was once a thing of stone.”
And still another: “We are coins which fade
In circulation, coins which Allah made
To cheat Iblis: the good and bad alike
Are spent by Fate upon a passing shade.”
The Earth then spake: “My children silent be;
The same to God the camel and the flea:
He makes a mess of me to nourish you,
Then makes a mess of you to nourish me.”
Now, mosques and churches—even a Kaaba Stone,
Korans and Bibles—even a martyr's bone—
All these and more my heart can tolerate,
For my religion's Love, and love alone.
To humankind, O Brother, consecrate
Thy heart, and shun the hundred sects that prate
About the things they little know about—
Let all receive thy pity, not thy hate.