LXIII

Why, be this Juice the growth of G.o.d, 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?

LXIV

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, When the frail Cup is crumbled into Dust!

LXV

If but the Vine and Love-abjuring Band Are in the Prophet's Paradise to stand, Alack, I doubt the Prophet's Paradise Were empty as the hollow of one's Hand.

LXVI

Oh, threats of h.e.l.l 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 is blown for ever dies.

LXVII

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

LXVIII

The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their fellows, and to Sleep return'd.

LXIX

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Is't not a Shame--is't not a Shame for him So long in this Clay suburb to abide!

LXX

But that is but a Tent wherein may rest A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

LXXI

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And after many days my Soul return'd And said, "Behold, Myself am Heav'n and h.e.l.l:"

LXXII

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And h.e.l.l the Shadow of a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

LXXIII

We are no other than a moving row Of visionary Shapes that come and go Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXXIV

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

LXXV

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, _He_ knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!

LXXVI

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.

LXXVII

For let Philosopher and Doctor preach Of what they will, and what they will not--each Is but one Link in an eternal Chain That none can slip, nor break, nor overreach.

LXXVIII

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It As impotently rolls as you or I.

LXXIX

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

Lx.x.x

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.

Lx.x.xI

I tell you this--When, started from the Goal, Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul