Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THE SECRET-quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True-
And upon what, prithee, does life depend?

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:

Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; and
They change and perish all-but He remains;

A moment guessed-then back behind the Fold
Immersed of Darkness round the Drama rolled
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,

He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heaven's unopening Door,
You gaze TO-DAY, while You are You-how then
TO-MORROW, You when shall be You no more?

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.

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.

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.

Ah, but my Computations, People say, Reduced the Year to better reckoning?-Nay, 'Twas only striking from the Calendar Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

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!

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:

The mighty Mahmúd, 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.

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?

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!

Oh 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.

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too.

The Revelations of Devout and Learned
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burned,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades and to Sleep returned.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible
Some letter of that After-life to spell:

And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answered, "I Myself am Heaven and Hell."

Heaven but the Vision of fulfilled 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.

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;

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Checker-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

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

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

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

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sowed the Seed;

And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

YESTERDAY This Day's Madness did prepare;
TO-MORROW'S Silence, Triumph, or Despair:

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

I tell you this-When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal

Of Heaven Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul

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

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.

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

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

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!

Oh Thou, who Man of Baser Earth didst make, And even with Paradise devise the Snake:

For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blackened-Man's forgiveness give-and take!

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

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
Listened perhaps, but never talked at all.

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."

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."

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?"

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot-
I think a Súfi pipkin-waxing hot-

"All this of Pot and Potter-Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell

The luckless Pots he marred in making-Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."