  I sat with Omar by the Tavern door Musing the mystery of mortals o'er, And soon with answers alternate we strove Whether, beyond death, Life hath any shore. "Come, fill the cup," said he. "In the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling. The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing." "The Bird of Time?" I answered. "Then have I No heart for Wine. Must we not cross the Sky Unto Eternity upon his wings— Or, failing, fall into the Gulf and die?" "So some for the Glories of this World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; But you, Friend, take the Cash—the Credit leave, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!" "What, take the Cash and let the Credit go? Spend all upon the Wine the while I know A possible To-morrow may bring thirst For Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?" "Yea, make the most of what you yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!" "Into the Dust we shall descend—we must. But can the soul not break the crumbling Crust In which he is encaged? To hope or to Despair he will—which is more wise or just?" "The worldly hope men set their hearts upon Turns Ashes—or it prospers: and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two—is gone." "Like Snow it comes—to cool one burning Day; And like it goes—for all our plea or sway. But flooding tears nor Wine can ever purge The Vision it has brought to us away." "But to this world we come and Why not knowing Nor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the waste, We know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing." "True, little do we know of Why or Whence. But is forsooth our Darkness evidence There is no Light?—the worm may see no star Tho' heaven with myriad multitudes be dense." "But, all unasked, we're hither hurried Whence? And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence? O, many a cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence." "Yet can not—ever! For it is forbid Still by that quenchless soul within us hid, Which cries, 'Feed—feed me not on Wine alone, For to Immortal Banquets I am bid.'" "Well oft I think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled: That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her lap from some once lovely Head." "Then if, from the dull Clay thro' with Life's throes, More beautiful spring Hyacinth and Rose, Will the great Gard'ner for the uprooted soul Find Use no sweeter than—useless Repose?" "We cannot know—so fill the cup that clears To-day of past regret and future fears: To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow we may be Ourselves with yesterday's sev'n thousand Years." "No Cup there is to bring oblivion More during than Regret and Fear—no, none! For Wine that's Wine to-day may change and be Marah before to-morrow's Sands have run." "Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door wherein I went." "The doors of Argument may lead Nowhither, Reason become a Prison where may wither From sunless eyes the Infinite, from hearts All Hope, when their sojourn too long is thither." "Up from Earth's Centre thro' the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravelled by the Road— But not the Master-knot of Human fate." "The Master-knot knows but the Master-hand That scattered Saturn and his countless Band Like seeds upon the unplanted heaven's Air: The Truth we reap from them is Chaff thrice fanned." "Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust aside And naked on the air of Heaven ride, Wer't not a shame—wer't not a shame for him In this clay carcass crippled to abide?" "No, for a day bound in this Dust may teach More of the Saki's Mind than we can reach Through aeons mounting still from Sky to Sky— May open through all Mystery a breach." "You speak as if Existence closing your Account and mine should know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has poured Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour." "Bubbles we are, pricked by the point of Death. But, in each bubble, hope there dwells a Breath That lifts it and at last to Freedom flies, And o'er all heights of Heaven wandereth." "A moment's halt—a momentary taste Of Being from the Well amid the Waste— And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reached The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!" "And yet it should |
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