  When the world-illuming sun rushed upon Night like a brigand, My weeping bedewed the face of the rose. My tears washed away sleep from the eye of the narcissus, My passion wakened the grass and made it grow. The Gardener taught me to sing with power,?5 He sowed a verse and reaped a sword. In the soil he planted only the seed of my tears And wove my lament with the garden, as warp and woof. Tho’ I am but a mote, the radiant sun is mine: Within my bosom are a hundred dawns.?10 My dust is brighter than JamshÍd’s cup, It knows things that are yet unborn in the world. My thought hunted down and slung from the saddle a deer That has not yet leaped forth from the covert of non-existence. Fair is my garden ere yet the leaves are green:?15 Full-blown roses are hidden in the skirt of my garment. I struck dumb the musicians where they were gathered together, I smote the heartstrings of all that heard me, Because the lute of my genius hath a rare melody: Even to comrades my song is strange.?20 I am born in the world as a new sun, I have not learned the ways and fashions of the sky: Not yet have the stars fled before my splendour, Not yet is my quicksilver astir; Untouched is the sea by my dancing rays,?25 Untouched are the mountains by my crimson hue. The eye of existence is not familiar with me; I rise trembling, afraid to show myself. From the East my dawn arrived and routed Night, A fresh dew settled on the rose of the world.?30 I am waiting for the votaries that rise at dawn: Oh, happy they who shall worship my fire! I have no need of the ear of To-day, I am the voice of the poet of To-morrow. My own age does not understand my deep meanings,?35 My Joseph is not for this market. I despair of my old companions, My Sinai burns for sake of the Moses who is coming. Their sea is silent, like dew, But my dew is storm-ridden, like the ocean.?40 My song is of another world than theirs: This bell calls other travellers to take the road. How many a poet after his death Opened our eyes when his own were closed, And journeyed forth again from nothingness?45 When roses blossomed o’er the earth of his grave! Albeit caravans have passed through this desert, They passed, as a camel steps, with little sound. But I am a lover: loud crying is my faith: The clamour of Judgement Day is one of my minions.?50 My song exceeds the range of the chord, Yet I do not fear that my lute will break. ‘Twere better for the waterdrop not to know my torrent, Whose fury should rather madden the sea. My flood requires whole seas to hold it. Unless the bud expand into a bed of roses, It is unworthy of my spring-cloud’s bounty. Lightnings slumber within my soul, I sweep over mountain and plain.?60 Wrestle with my sea, if thou art a plain; Receive my lightning, if thou art a Sinai. The Fountain of Life hath been given me to drink, I have been made an adept of the mystery of Life. The speck of dust was vitalised by my burning song:?65 It unfolded wings and became a firefly. No one hath told the secret which I will tell Or threaded a pearl of thought like mine. Come, if thou would’st know the secret of everlasting life! Come, if thou would’st win both earth and heaven!?70 The old Guru of the Sky taught me this lore, I cannot hide it from my comrades. O Saki! arise and pour wine into the cup, Clear the vexation of Time from my heart! Were it a beggar, a king would pay homage to it. It makes thought more sober and wise, It makes the keen eye keener, It gives to a straw the weight of a mountain, And to foxes the strength of lions.?80 It causes dust to soar to the Pleiades And a drop of water swell to the breadth of the sea. It turns silence into the din of Judgement Day, It makes the foot of the partridge red with blood of the hawk. Arise and pour pure wine into my cup,?85 Pour moonbeams into the dark night of my thought, That I may lead home the wanderer And imbue the idle looker-on with restless impatience; And advance hotly on a new quest And become known as the champion of a new spirit;?90< |
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