Creative Muse: The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (continued) [<<< Part 1]

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.

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.

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."

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!

For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,

I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:

And with its all-obliterated Tongue

I murmur'd -- "Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"

Ah! fill the Cup: -- what boots it to repeat

How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

Unborn Tomorrow, and dead Yesterday,

Why fret about them if Today be sweet!

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!

 

How long, how long, in infinite Pursuit

Of This and That endeavor and dispute?

Better be merry with the fruitful Grape

Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

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.

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line,

And "Up-and-down" without, I could define,

I yet in all only cared to know,

Was never deep in anything but -- Wine.

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!

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.

The mighty Mahmud, the victorious Lord,

Tat all the misbelieving and black Horde

of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul

Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.

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.

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.

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.

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 The -- take that, and do not shrink.

 

'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.

The Ball no Question makes of Ayes or Noes,

But Right and 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about

If clings my Being -- let the Sufi 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 Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught

Better than in the Temple lost outright.

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?

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!

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.

And, strange to tell, among the Earthen Lot

Some could articulate, while others not:

And suddenly one more impatient cried --

"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

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 be back to common Earth again."

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 fancy, in an after Rage destroy?"

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?"

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."

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 by!"

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!"

 

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,

And wash my Body whence the Life has died,

And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,

So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

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!

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!

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!

[<<< Part 1]

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