  Beside the Sufis ran a whited wall. Two cypress-trees peeped over from the waist, Stiff, motionless as toys. Among their spires A lithe voice mounted and leaned down again: "Come, for to-night the hills are all white marble Under a sapphire dome, Where bats scrawl riddles which the bulbuls garble For owls to answer. Come. "The air is sick of moon-discoloured roses, The plain stagnates like some Weird archipelago of garden-closes And dead, bleached waters. Come. "O night of miracles! Come, let us wander Over this ghostly sea To that dark cypress-circled island yonder, In whose clear centre we "Will lie and float in phosphorescent ether. Thank heaven that night is cool As day was scorching. Let us watch together The lovers in the pool. "Look in! Lie still! A jewelled ripple spangles The hand upon her hair; While, lying listless on her back, she dangles A finger in the air. "How still he is. Your motionless perfection Absorbs him utterly. Doubtless you seem to him his love's reflection Face downwards in the sky, "Whence I am hanging, seeing only her face, As he sees only yours. Lean down! And they shall meet us at the surface. O silent paramours "We bring to you, by stealth, while men are sleeping, A gift. Let your domain Have it for ever in its steadfast keeping; We shall not come again. "We bring our shadows: just the fleeting semblance Of human love. O might Your waters hold them for us in remembrance Of one short summer night! "A wondrous night, when two reflections hovered, Dreaming of love aloud Here by the pool, until the moon was covered By an impending cloud; "And then they lost each other. Where but lately The magic mirror shone, A wider shadow, cruelly, sedately, Passes ... and we are gone." The Dreamer stayed: "Who speaks of passing here? The river passes, passes to the sea, Drawing in rills the voices of the earth To make its voice that merges in the swell. The river passes and the boatman's chant Is swallowed up in distance and the night. Or is it, friend, the boats alone that pass? The river, as I sometimes think, remains. Even so it is with lovers and with love. Then sing us something wise where laughter lurks, As underneath the desert, from the hills Whence cometh help, the hidden water-course Chuckles. Upon this thread your garden hangs. Nay, never shake that cypress head! We need Not only sun but cloud and tears to build Laughter, the rainbow of the inner man." But the voice answered, or the cypress sighed: "I am the brain of Hitherto. In darkness I revolve and flash. Books are the fortune I ran through. My painted pen-case, yellow hue And yellow sash "Were famed from Yezd to Yezdikhast. I taught what space and learned what mud is. My metaphysics were my past. Alas, I left my lust till last Of all my studies. "I kept my mind so clear and keen By grinding guesswork into saws, You scarce could fit a meal between The triumphs of my thought-machine, Its puissant jaws. "The process of my intellect, Mazed by the clapping hands that fed it, Rolled on. They, founding a new sect On premises that I had wrecked, Gave me the credit. "And so I used my fame to part Man from his planks to sink or swim; I plumbed his shallows, drew the chart.... Illusions broke the blacksmith's heart. I envied him "Suddenly, and set out to moon About this garden scholarwise. One silver laugh, two silken shoon, To fill my empty anderÛn With splendid lies "I ask of shadows, battering My bars, and wonder why I ache. O You who made both cage and wing, Let me redeem my toilsome spring By one mistake." In the parched road the Dreamer took his lute And tossed these chords across the battlement: "The myrtles of Damascus, The willows of Gilan, Have sent the breeze to ask us If aught but sceptics can Deny the spirit calling To flesh—we are the call— And save themselves from falling Behind a whited wall. "Most pure was Abu Bakr, And Allah speeds the plough That furrows young wiseacre Across an open brow. Most fair is self-possession— Give me the open road— But Solomon in session Went mad and wrote an ode. "All fields of thought are arid, No earthly soil is rich, By thirst of knowledge harried And those ambi |
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