Th’ Infinite’s lovers finite’s worshippers are not.Who seek the finite lose th’ Infinite, as we wot.When finite with the finite falls in love, perforce,His loved one soon returns to her infinite source.A beard that puts itself into another’s grasp,In lather’s smothered; emblem of a weak mind’s gasp.He’s not his own lord; cannot guide his own affairs;He does but what he’s told; where’er he’s bid, repairs.Would’st sin with woman? Choose, at least, one that is free.Would’st rob and steal? Let pearls and jewels be thy fee.565A slave obeys a master; has himself no will;The scent is all the rose’s; thorns show no such skill.A slave may not attain to wish that he may form;His toil is vain, his trouble profitless;—poor worm!Shall hunter snare a shadow? Where were then his food?A shadow’s not a substance;—can do no one good.A foolish hunter seized the shadow of a bird!The fowl, on tree securely perched, not one foot stirred;But, wondering, thought: “What is the stupid fool about?Demented, sure; his little wit he’s let ooze out!”570But if thou thinkest finite’s of th’ Infinite born;And sayest: “For love of rose, do honour to the thorn;”Consider: finite unto Infinite’s not joined.Or what need of the prophets? They’ve not scripture coined.The prophets have been sent to link the two in one.If they’re not two, but one, what have the prophets done?But let that be. Th’ inquiry has no useful end.The day is waning; let us to our tale attend.The Arab now his little pot of water showed.As seed to earth, he it on Caliph’s court bestowed;575And said: “Present my offering at the sovereign’s feet,If beggar save his king from want, it’s surely meet.The water’s fresh; the little jar green-glazed and new;Filled from a pool replenished by the rain and dew.”On hearing this the guards were laughing in their sleeves;But still, as precious, took the jar;—polite court-reeves!The Caliph’s kindly nature, active, well-informed,To kindness had each member of his court reformed.For as the sovereign is, so will his subjects be.The azure vault of heaven makes green the earth;—you see.580A king’s a reservoir; his servants are his mains,Through whom his bounty flows, to swell his subjects’ veins.The stream, if flowing from a tank all sweet and pure,Each main distributes bounty, courtesy;—be sure.But should the reservoir prove foul and nauseous, then,The mains can flow with naught but venom, like a fen.The mains can only what they get convey around.Remember this. We’re treading now on solid ground.A sovereign’s goodness is an unembodied soul,That permeates the clay of human frame, its goal.585It is the mind, the all-informing, well-derived,That brings the body into discipline, where hived.Love is a wanton, restless, reckless of control,That drives the man to madness; passion does extol;But goodness is a stream as sweet as Fount of Life;Its pebbles are all pearls, all jewels, beauteous, rife.Whichever be the science makes a teacher famed,His scholars’ minds with that will surely be inflamed.A jurist’s pupils study principles of law,If but their mental principles be free from flaw.590A lawyer’s prentice over subtle cases pores;The principles, with him, are most unwelcome bores.A syntax-teacher rears a host of grammar’s sons,With whom his syntax passes for the sun of suns.A teacher who inculcates abnegation’s creed,Surrounds himself with pupils free from lust and greed.But at the hour of death, of science’s long roll,The art of poverty’s what most behoves man’s soul.A syntax-teacher, once, was mounted in a boat,Who to the skipper turned, as soon as e’er afloat,595And asked: “Hast studied syntax?” “No indeed,” quoth he.The teacher then: “Thy life’s half-wasted! Dost thou see?”The skipper felt heart-broken at this pert remark;But, for the moment, held his peace;—wise man’s bulwark.The wind arose; the bark was sorely tempest-tossed;The skipper then addressed the teacher, sickness-crossed:“Knowest thou the swimmer’s art, good friend? With speed reply.”“Nay,” said the teacher, “that’s an art the schools decry.”The skipper now remarked: “Thy whole life’s gone to waste.The ship must go to pieces. Water salt thou’lt taste.600With syncope, not syntax, now we’ll have to deal.With syncope, from water comes nor hurt, nor weal,The sea bears on its surface bodies of the dead;But living men it drowns; them sinks, as though of lead.So soon as thou’lt be dead to every human artTo thee eternity its secrets will impart.Thou hitherto hast deemed us mortals asses all;Now thou thyself, as ass on ice, must have a fall.Although thou be the very Plato of the age,Thou’st still to learn that time, the world, is but a page.”605This tale about the syntax-teacher we’ve tacked on,To show the grammar dissolution turns upon.All syntax, grammar, jurisprudence, law, and art,Thou’lt find, my friend, of knowledge is but a small part.Our little learning is the Arab’s water-pot.In Caliph, of God’s wisdom we’ve an emblem got.We bring our pot of water to great Tigris’ stream.If we ourselves not asses call, us asses deem.The Arab of our tale excusable was,—troth;He knew not of a Tigris. Where’s the Arab doth?610Had he, as we, known Tigris’ stream, and all its store,His water-pot had never travelled to its shore;Had he become aware of what a Tigris meant,Arrived at Bagdād, he’d his pot to fragments sent.The Caliph, when he saw that pot, and heard that tale,The vase had filled with golden sequins, like a bale,Our Arab thus to free from poverty’s rude grasp;—A robe of honour, too; and presents for his clasp,He ordered. Then the whole unto the guards were sent,With kindliest injunctions, fruit of good intent:615“That all unto that Arab man be safely given,Whose journey home by Tigris’ arrowy stream be driven.By land he came; he’d travelled all the way on foot;But Tigris’ stream may bear him back a shorter route.”Our Arab in a boat was placed at river’s side;The stream he saw, admired, bowed low, lost all his pride;Exclaiming: “Wondrous goodness of the sovereign will!Th’ acceptance of my water-pot more wondrous still!How could that sea of wealth my drop deign to accept,And largely thus to recompense the trifle kept?”620Know now, my friend, this world’s one mighty water-pot,With wisdom and with beauty teeming; as all wot.One drop, however, ’tis, from ocean of His grace,Whose fulness cannot be confined in any place.That treasure latent was. Through fulness it burst forth,More glorious than the heavens became thenceforth the earth.The latent treasure, pouring out its riches great,The earth made kinglike, clothed with more than regal state.One little branch canal from th’ ocean of God’s grace,Thus overwhelms this mighty water-pot of space.625They who see God are ever rapt in ecstasy;And raptured, hold that water-pot mere fallacy.O thou! envy of whom is to that pot a stone!Though fractured by the shock, the pot yields sounder tone.The pot is cracked; but, still, its water is not spilt;The crack’s the very source through which it’s sounder built.The jar’s each single particle’s in dance and revery,Though unto man’s poor wisdom this seems foolery.The pot, the world, all it contains, are lost to view.Consider well this fact! God knows it’s simply true.630If thou canst grasp this meaning, thou’rt like falcon strong.Beat, then, the pinions of thy thoughts. Be hawk, ere long.Thought’s pinions are bemired in thee, and heavy move;Because thou feedest on clay; clay’s bread to thee, I’ll prove.As flesh, bread is but clay. Trust not thereon for strength;Or thou’lt remain, claylike, within the earth at length.Dost hunger? What art thou, then, but a dog?Fierce, ill-affected, raging; lusts thy vitals clog!And when with food thou’rt filled, polluted straight becomest.Thou losest strength and sense; mere stock, thou sleep welcomest.635So, being doglike or a stock, senseless, impure,How canst thou progress make in path of virtue, sure?Whatever ’tis thou huntest, dog thou art, in sooth.Feed not, then, thus, the dog of lust’s voracious tooth.When dogs are satisfied, obedience they forswear;To follow up the game they one and all forbear.His want it was disposed the Arab of our tale,To travel till he’d reached the Caliph’s courtly vale.We’ve shown the bounty of that sovereign merciful,Shed on the Arab’s wretchedness, most plentiful.640Whate’er a lover says, the sentiment of loveShines through his words, if but thoughts towards his mistress rove.Discourses he on law, love furnishes the theme;Throughout his labouring periods, love’s the enthymeme.Should blasphemy rise to his lips, of faith it smacks.Doubt, when by him expressed, shows confidence’s knacks.The spume that rises from the sea of his pure heartPartakes the nature of its source, truth’s counterpart.We must esteem such spume as foam of mountain-rill;—Upbraiding from a lip beloved is worshipped still.645Attention we pay not to harsh words issuing thence;—The features we adore divest them of offence.However strange such utterances, they all seem true;The stranger they appear, to sense they lend more cue.If sugar we should cast in mould to look like bread,Then eat it, we the sugar taste. Form’s of no stead.Should true believer golden idol light upon,Will he for worship set it up, anon, anon?Nay! To the fire he’ll quickly it in wrath consign,And strip it of the form that makes it sin’s foul sign.650The gold, abstracted from the idol’s form, is pure.That form it is corrupts,—can men to sin allure.The gold’s an essence fixed, produced by nature’s God;The idol stamp is transitory;—soon downtrod.Thou for one flea to flames thy bed wouldst never give;For one musquito’s hum, not wish to cease to live.If form-entrapped thou be, idolater thou art!Eschew mere form; attend to essence, as thy part.Art bound on pilgrimage? Seek other pilgrims out;—Be they from Hind, from Tatary, or Hadramout.655Peer not into their features; look not at their skins.Inquire their thoughts, their hearts;—if these be free of sins.A negro findest thou one with thee in faith and creed?Him deem a white;—thy brother is he in thy need.Our tale is told. Its ups and downs are manifold.Like lovers’ thoughts, it’s wandering, unconnected, bold.Commencement it has none;—eternity’s its sign;—Still less conclusion;—so, eternity’s design.Or, rather, it’s like water;—every drop, so rich,Commencement is, and end;—yet shows not which is which.660But, God forbid! Our story’s not a fable. See!Its narrative’s a point concerns both me and thee!A gnostic, in possession of his wits and sense,Repeats not what is past;—he bides the present tense.The Arab, his poor pitcher, Caliph, all, observe,Ourselves are. “He shall swerve whom God shall cause to swerve!”322Our Arab, know, ’s the mind; his wife, our lusts and greed.These two are tenebrous; the mind’s the torch they need.Now hear whence has arisen the ground of their dispute:Th’ infinite finites holds, of various attribute;—665Parts finite;—not parts infinite of th’ infinite,Like scent of rose,—part infinite of definite.The verdure’s beauty infinite is, as a part;The cooing of the dove’s as infinite, in logic art.But go we not too far afield for sorts and kinds;Or poor disciples ne’er will slake their thirsting minds.Dost doubt? Art racked with difficulties? To excess?Have patience. “Patience is the key of all success!”323Be abstinent. Let not thy crowding thoughts run wild.Thoughts lions are, and antelopes. Mind’s forest; child!670The prime of remedies is abstinence, we know.And scratching irritates the itch;—as leeches show.Of treatment medical the base is abstinence.Therefore be abstinent. Show strength of mind and sense.Accept my counsel. Lend an ear as I advise;In golden earrings, counsel’s pearls shall be thy prize.Be thou as slave to this, my cunning goldsmith-art;I’ll teach thee how to soar beyond the stars’ bright chart.Know, first of all, creation’s minds are manifold,As are its forms;—from Alpha to Omega told.675From this variety, disorder seems to rise;Though, in true sense, to unity the series hies.In one sense, they’re discordant; other, in accord;They now as folly, now as wisdom, pass a word.The day of judgment will to each assign its place;All men of wisdom yearn to see that day of grace.He who, as blackamoor, is steeped in sin’s dark dye,In that dread day shall gulp dishonour’s foulest lye.The wretch whose countenance beams not bright as the sun,Shall strive in vain behind the densest veil to run.680If, like some thorns, his stem display no single rose,That springtide will prove fatal to his safe repose.But he that blooms from head to foot with righteous deeds,With joy shall welcome spring’s awakening of those meads.The useless thorn desires the nipping wintry blast,To lay all low and simplify the flowery vast;That so, all beauty cloaked, all squalor hid, the same,All glorious hues, all hideous sights, be rendered tame.The leaf’s fall to such thorn more grateful is than spring;The ruby and the flint are one in tithesman’s ring.685True, that the gardener’s eye in winter knows the thorn;But what is one eye’s scrutiny to general scorn!The vulgar public is, as ’twere, one witless wight;Each star’s a clipping of the moon, in its fond sight.Not so great men of wisdom, radiant with troth,They shout with joy: “Good tidings! Spring breaks into growth!”Unless the flowers blossom on the fertile trees,How can the fruit be gathered, honey store the bees?The flowers blow and fade; the fruit begins to swell.So, when our bodies die, our souls in glory dwell.690The fruit’s reality; the flower is but a sign;The flower’s the harbinger; the fruit, the true design.The flower blown and past, the fruit then comes in sight;The first must perish ere the other can see light.Unless a loaf be broke, no nutriment it yields;Until the grapes are crushed, no cup of wine man wields.So drugs, to prove a solace to the sufferer’s ache,Together must be blended, rolled in one smooth cake.694
Th’ Infinite’s lovers finite’s worshippers are not.Who seek the finite lose th’ Infinite, as we wot.When finite with the finite falls in love, perforce,His loved one soon returns to her infinite source.A beard that puts itself into another’s grasp,In lather’s smothered; emblem of a weak mind’s gasp.He’s not his own lord; cannot guide his own affairs;He does but what he’s told; where’er he’s bid, repairs.Would’st sin with woman? Choose, at least, one that is free.Would’st rob and steal? Let pearls and jewels be thy fee.565A slave obeys a master; has himself no will;The scent is all the rose’s; thorns show no such skill.A slave may not attain to wish that he may form;His toil is vain, his trouble profitless;—poor worm!Shall hunter snare a shadow? Where were then his food?A shadow’s not a substance;—can do no one good.A foolish hunter seized the shadow of a bird!The fowl, on tree securely perched, not one foot stirred;But, wondering, thought: “What is the stupid fool about?Demented, sure; his little wit he’s let ooze out!”570But if thou thinkest finite’s of th’ Infinite born;And sayest: “For love of rose, do honour to the thorn;”Consider: finite unto Infinite’s not joined.Or what need of the prophets? They’ve not scripture coined.The prophets have been sent to link the two in one.If they’re not two, but one, what have the prophets done?But let that be. Th’ inquiry has no useful end.The day is waning; let us to our tale attend.The Arab now his little pot of water showed.As seed to earth, he it on Caliph’s court bestowed;575And said: “Present my offering at the sovereign’s feet,If beggar save his king from want, it’s surely meet.The water’s fresh; the little jar green-glazed and new;Filled from a pool replenished by the rain and dew.”On hearing this the guards were laughing in their sleeves;But still, as precious, took the jar;—polite court-reeves!The Caliph’s kindly nature, active, well-informed,To kindness had each member of his court reformed.For as the sovereign is, so will his subjects be.The azure vault of heaven makes green the earth;—you see.580A king’s a reservoir; his servants are his mains,Through whom his bounty flows, to swell his subjects’ veins.The stream, if flowing from a tank all sweet and pure,Each main distributes bounty, courtesy;—be sure.But should the reservoir prove foul and nauseous, then,The mains can flow with naught but venom, like a fen.The mains can only what they get convey around.Remember this. We’re treading now on solid ground.A sovereign’s goodness is an unembodied soul,That permeates the clay of human frame, its goal.585It is the mind, the all-informing, well-derived,That brings the body into discipline, where hived.Love is a wanton, restless, reckless of control,That drives the man to madness; passion does extol;But goodness is a stream as sweet as Fount of Life;Its pebbles are all pearls, all jewels, beauteous, rife.Whichever be the science makes a teacher famed,His scholars’ minds with that will surely be inflamed.A jurist’s pupils study principles of law,If but their mental principles be free from flaw.590A lawyer’s prentice over subtle cases pores;The principles, with him, are most unwelcome bores.A syntax-teacher rears a host of grammar’s sons,With whom his syntax passes for the sun of suns.A teacher who inculcates abnegation’s creed,Surrounds himself with pupils free from lust and greed.But at the hour of death, of science’s long roll,The art of poverty’s what most behoves man’s soul.A syntax-teacher, once, was mounted in a boat,Who to the skipper turned, as soon as e’er afloat,595And asked: “Hast studied syntax?” “No indeed,” quoth he.The teacher then: “Thy life’s half-wasted! Dost thou see?”The skipper felt heart-broken at this pert remark;But, for the moment, held his peace;—wise man’s bulwark.The wind arose; the bark was sorely tempest-tossed;The skipper then addressed the teacher, sickness-crossed:“Knowest thou the swimmer’s art, good friend? With speed reply.”“Nay,” said the teacher, “that’s an art the schools decry.”The skipper now remarked: “Thy whole life’s gone to waste.The ship must go to pieces. Water salt thou’lt taste.600With syncope, not syntax, now we’ll have to deal.With syncope, from water comes nor hurt, nor weal,The sea bears on its surface bodies of the dead;But living men it drowns; them sinks, as though of lead.So soon as thou’lt be dead to every human artTo thee eternity its secrets will impart.Thou hitherto hast deemed us mortals asses all;Now thou thyself, as ass on ice, must have a fall.Although thou be the very Plato of the age,Thou’st still to learn that time, the world, is but a page.”605This tale about the syntax-teacher we’ve tacked on,To show the grammar dissolution turns upon.All syntax, grammar, jurisprudence, law, and art,Thou’lt find, my friend, of knowledge is but a small part.Our little learning is the Arab’s water-pot.In Caliph, of God’s wisdom we’ve an emblem got.We bring our pot of water to great Tigris’ stream.If we ourselves not asses call, us asses deem.The Arab of our tale excusable was,—troth;He knew not of a Tigris. Where’s the Arab doth?610Had he, as we, known Tigris’ stream, and all its store,His water-pot had never travelled to its shore;Had he become aware of what a Tigris meant,Arrived at Bagdād, he’d his pot to fragments sent.The Caliph, when he saw that pot, and heard that tale,The vase had filled with golden sequins, like a bale,Our Arab thus to free from poverty’s rude grasp;—A robe of honour, too; and presents for his clasp,He ordered. Then the whole unto the guards were sent,With kindliest injunctions, fruit of good intent:615“That all unto that Arab man be safely given,Whose journey home by Tigris’ arrowy stream be driven.By land he came; he’d travelled all the way on foot;But Tigris’ stream may bear him back a shorter route.”Our Arab in a boat was placed at river’s side;The stream he saw, admired, bowed low, lost all his pride;Exclaiming: “Wondrous goodness of the sovereign will!Th’ acceptance of my water-pot more wondrous still!How could that sea of wealth my drop deign to accept,And largely thus to recompense the trifle kept?”620Know now, my friend, this world’s one mighty water-pot,With wisdom and with beauty teeming; as all wot.One drop, however, ’tis, from ocean of His grace,Whose fulness cannot be confined in any place.That treasure latent was. Through fulness it burst forth,More glorious than the heavens became thenceforth the earth.The latent treasure, pouring out its riches great,The earth made kinglike, clothed with more than regal state.One little branch canal from th’ ocean of God’s grace,Thus overwhelms this mighty water-pot of space.625They who see God are ever rapt in ecstasy;And raptured, hold that water-pot mere fallacy.O thou! envy of whom is to that pot a stone!Though fractured by the shock, the pot yields sounder tone.The pot is cracked; but, still, its water is not spilt;The crack’s the very source through which it’s sounder built.The jar’s each single particle’s in dance and revery,Though unto man’s poor wisdom this seems foolery.The pot, the world, all it contains, are lost to view.Consider well this fact! God knows it’s simply true.630If thou canst grasp this meaning, thou’rt like falcon strong.Beat, then, the pinions of thy thoughts. Be hawk, ere long.Thought’s pinions are bemired in thee, and heavy move;Because thou feedest on clay; clay’s bread to thee, I’ll prove.As flesh, bread is but clay. Trust not thereon for strength;Or thou’lt remain, claylike, within the earth at length.Dost hunger? What art thou, then, but a dog?Fierce, ill-affected, raging; lusts thy vitals clog!And when with food thou’rt filled, polluted straight becomest.Thou losest strength and sense; mere stock, thou sleep welcomest.635So, being doglike or a stock, senseless, impure,How canst thou progress make in path of virtue, sure?Whatever ’tis thou huntest, dog thou art, in sooth.Feed not, then, thus, the dog of lust’s voracious tooth.When dogs are satisfied, obedience they forswear;To follow up the game they one and all forbear.His want it was disposed the Arab of our tale,To travel till he’d reached the Caliph’s courtly vale.We’ve shown the bounty of that sovereign merciful,Shed on the Arab’s wretchedness, most plentiful.640Whate’er a lover says, the sentiment of loveShines through his words, if but thoughts towards his mistress rove.Discourses he on law, love furnishes the theme;Throughout his labouring periods, love’s the enthymeme.Should blasphemy rise to his lips, of faith it smacks.Doubt, when by him expressed, shows confidence’s knacks.The spume that rises from the sea of his pure heartPartakes the nature of its source, truth’s counterpart.We must esteem such spume as foam of mountain-rill;—Upbraiding from a lip beloved is worshipped still.645Attention we pay not to harsh words issuing thence;—The features we adore divest them of offence.However strange such utterances, they all seem true;The stranger they appear, to sense they lend more cue.If sugar we should cast in mould to look like bread,Then eat it, we the sugar taste. Form’s of no stead.Should true believer golden idol light upon,Will he for worship set it up, anon, anon?Nay! To the fire he’ll quickly it in wrath consign,And strip it of the form that makes it sin’s foul sign.650The gold, abstracted from the idol’s form, is pure.That form it is corrupts,—can men to sin allure.The gold’s an essence fixed, produced by nature’s God;The idol stamp is transitory;—soon downtrod.Thou for one flea to flames thy bed wouldst never give;For one musquito’s hum, not wish to cease to live.If form-entrapped thou be, idolater thou art!Eschew mere form; attend to essence, as thy part.Art bound on pilgrimage? Seek other pilgrims out;—Be they from Hind, from Tatary, or Hadramout.655Peer not into their features; look not at their skins.Inquire their thoughts, their hearts;—if these be free of sins.A negro findest thou one with thee in faith and creed?Him deem a white;—thy brother is he in thy need.Our tale is told. Its ups and downs are manifold.Like lovers’ thoughts, it’s wandering, unconnected, bold.Commencement it has none;—eternity’s its sign;—Still less conclusion;—so, eternity’s design.Or, rather, it’s like water;—every drop, so rich,Commencement is, and end;—yet shows not which is which.660But, God forbid! Our story’s not a fable. See!Its narrative’s a point concerns both me and thee!A gnostic, in possession of his wits and sense,Repeats not what is past;—he bides the present tense.The Arab, his poor pitcher, Caliph, all, observe,Ourselves are. “He shall swerve whom God shall cause to swerve!”322Our Arab, know, ’s the mind; his wife, our lusts and greed.These two are tenebrous; the mind’s the torch they need.Now hear whence has arisen the ground of their dispute:Th’ infinite finites holds, of various attribute;—665Parts finite;—not parts infinite of th’ infinite,Like scent of rose,—part infinite of definite.The verdure’s beauty infinite is, as a part;The cooing of the dove’s as infinite, in logic art.But go we not too far afield for sorts and kinds;Or poor disciples ne’er will slake their thirsting minds.Dost doubt? Art racked with difficulties? To excess?Have patience. “Patience is the key of all success!”323Be abstinent. Let not thy crowding thoughts run wild.Thoughts lions are, and antelopes. Mind’s forest; child!670The prime of remedies is abstinence, we know.And scratching irritates the itch;—as leeches show.Of treatment medical the base is abstinence.Therefore be abstinent. Show strength of mind and sense.Accept my counsel. Lend an ear as I advise;In golden earrings, counsel’s pearls shall be thy prize.Be thou as slave to this, my cunning goldsmith-art;I’ll teach thee how to soar beyond the stars’ bright chart.Know, first of all, creation’s minds are manifold,As are its forms;—from Alpha to Omega told.675From this variety, disorder seems to rise;Though, in true sense, to unity the series hies.In one sense, they’re discordant; other, in accord;They now as folly, now as wisdom, pass a word.The day of judgment will to each assign its place;All men of wisdom yearn to see that day of grace.He who, as blackamoor, is steeped in sin’s dark dye,In that dread day shall gulp dishonour’s foulest lye.The wretch whose countenance beams not bright as the sun,Shall strive in vain behind the densest veil to run.680If, like some thorns, his stem display no single rose,That springtide will prove fatal to his safe repose.But he that blooms from head to foot with righteous deeds,With joy shall welcome spring’s awakening of those meads.The useless thorn desires the nipping wintry blast,To lay all low and simplify the flowery vast;That so, all beauty cloaked, all squalor hid, the same,All glorious hues, all hideous sights, be rendered tame.The leaf’s fall to such thorn more grateful is than spring;The ruby and the flint are one in tithesman’s ring.685True, that the gardener’s eye in winter knows the thorn;But what is one eye’s scrutiny to general scorn!The vulgar public is, as ’twere, one witless wight;Each star’s a clipping of the moon, in its fond sight.Not so great men of wisdom, radiant with troth,They shout with joy: “Good tidings! Spring breaks into growth!”Unless the flowers blossom on the fertile trees,How can the fruit be gathered, honey store the bees?The flowers blow and fade; the fruit begins to swell.So, when our bodies die, our souls in glory dwell.690The fruit’s reality; the flower is but a sign;The flower’s the harbinger; the fruit, the true design.The flower blown and past, the fruit then comes in sight;The first must perish ere the other can see light.Unless a loaf be broke, no nutriment it yields;Until the grapes are crushed, no cup of wine man wields.So drugs, to prove a solace to the sufferer’s ache,Together must be blended, rolled in one smooth cake.694
Th’ Infinite’s lovers finite’s worshippers are not.Who seek the finite lose th’ Infinite, as we wot.When finite with the finite falls in love, perforce,His loved one soon returns to her infinite source.A beard that puts itself into another’s grasp,In lather’s smothered; emblem of a weak mind’s gasp.He’s not his own lord; cannot guide his own affairs;He does but what he’s told; where’er he’s bid, repairs.
Th’ Infinite’s lovers finite’s worshippers are not.
Who seek the finite lose th’ Infinite, as we wot.
When finite with the finite falls in love, perforce,
His loved one soon returns to her infinite source.
A beard that puts itself into another’s grasp,
In lather’s smothered; emblem of a weak mind’s gasp.
He’s not his own lord; cannot guide his own affairs;
He does but what he’s told; where’er he’s bid, repairs.
Would’st sin with woman? Choose, at least, one that is free.Would’st rob and steal? Let pearls and jewels be thy fee.565A slave obeys a master; has himself no will;The scent is all the rose’s; thorns show no such skill.A slave may not attain to wish that he may form;His toil is vain, his trouble profitless;—poor worm!Shall hunter snare a shadow? Where were then his food?A shadow’s not a substance;—can do no one good.A foolish hunter seized the shadow of a bird!The fowl, on tree securely perched, not one foot stirred;But, wondering, thought: “What is the stupid fool about?Demented, sure; his little wit he’s let ooze out!”570
Would’st sin with woman? Choose, at least, one that is free.
Would’st rob and steal? Let pearls and jewels be thy fee.565
A slave obeys a master; has himself no will;
The scent is all the rose’s; thorns show no such skill.
A slave may not attain to wish that he may form;
His toil is vain, his trouble profitless;—poor worm!
Shall hunter snare a shadow? Where were then his food?
A shadow’s not a substance;—can do no one good.
A foolish hunter seized the shadow of a bird!
The fowl, on tree securely perched, not one foot stirred;
But, wondering, thought: “What is the stupid fool about?
Demented, sure; his little wit he’s let ooze out!”570
But if thou thinkest finite’s of th’ Infinite born;And sayest: “For love of rose, do honour to the thorn;”Consider: finite unto Infinite’s not joined.Or what need of the prophets? They’ve not scripture coined.The prophets have been sent to link the two in one.If they’re not two, but one, what have the prophets done?But let that be. Th’ inquiry has no useful end.The day is waning; let us to our tale attend.
But if thou thinkest finite’s of th’ Infinite born;
And sayest: “For love of rose, do honour to the thorn;”
Consider: finite unto Infinite’s not joined.
Or what need of the prophets? They’ve not scripture coined.
The prophets have been sent to link the two in one.
If they’re not two, but one, what have the prophets done?
But let that be. Th’ inquiry has no useful end.
The day is waning; let us to our tale attend.
The Arab now his little pot of water showed.As seed to earth, he it on Caliph’s court bestowed;575And said: “Present my offering at the sovereign’s feet,If beggar save his king from want, it’s surely meet.The water’s fresh; the little jar green-glazed and new;Filled from a pool replenished by the rain and dew.”On hearing this the guards were laughing in their sleeves;But still, as precious, took the jar;—polite court-reeves!The Caliph’s kindly nature, active, well-informed,To kindness had each member of his court reformed.For as the sovereign is, so will his subjects be.The azure vault of heaven makes green the earth;—you see.580
The Arab now his little pot of water showed.
As seed to earth, he it on Caliph’s court bestowed;575
And said: “Present my offering at the sovereign’s feet,
If beggar save his king from want, it’s surely meet.
The water’s fresh; the little jar green-glazed and new;
Filled from a pool replenished by the rain and dew.”
On hearing this the guards were laughing in their sleeves;
But still, as precious, took the jar;—polite court-reeves!
The Caliph’s kindly nature, active, well-informed,
To kindness had each member of his court reformed.
For as the sovereign is, so will his subjects be.
The azure vault of heaven makes green the earth;—you see.580
A king’s a reservoir; his servants are his mains,Through whom his bounty flows, to swell his subjects’ veins.The stream, if flowing from a tank all sweet and pure,Each main distributes bounty, courtesy;—be sure.But should the reservoir prove foul and nauseous, then,The mains can flow with naught but venom, like a fen.The mains can only what they get convey around.Remember this. We’re treading now on solid ground.
A king’s a reservoir; his servants are his mains,
Through whom his bounty flows, to swell his subjects’ veins.
The stream, if flowing from a tank all sweet and pure,
Each main distributes bounty, courtesy;—be sure.
But should the reservoir prove foul and nauseous, then,
The mains can flow with naught but venom, like a fen.
The mains can only what they get convey around.
Remember this. We’re treading now on solid ground.
A sovereign’s goodness is an unembodied soul,That permeates the clay of human frame, its goal.585It is the mind, the all-informing, well-derived,That brings the body into discipline, where hived.Love is a wanton, restless, reckless of control,That drives the man to madness; passion does extol;But goodness is a stream as sweet as Fount of Life;Its pebbles are all pearls, all jewels, beauteous, rife.
A sovereign’s goodness is an unembodied soul,
That permeates the clay of human frame, its goal.585
It is the mind, the all-informing, well-derived,
That brings the body into discipline, where hived.
Love is a wanton, restless, reckless of control,
That drives the man to madness; passion does extol;
But goodness is a stream as sweet as Fount of Life;
Its pebbles are all pearls, all jewels, beauteous, rife.
Whichever be the science makes a teacher famed,His scholars’ minds with that will surely be inflamed.A jurist’s pupils study principles of law,If but their mental principles be free from flaw.590A lawyer’s prentice over subtle cases pores;The principles, with him, are most unwelcome bores.A syntax-teacher rears a host of grammar’s sons,With whom his syntax passes for the sun of suns.A teacher who inculcates abnegation’s creed,Surrounds himself with pupils free from lust and greed.But at the hour of death, of science’s long roll,The art of poverty’s what most behoves man’s soul.
Whichever be the science makes a teacher famed,
His scholars’ minds with that will surely be inflamed.
A jurist’s pupils study principles of law,
If but their mental principles be free from flaw.590
A lawyer’s prentice over subtle cases pores;
The principles, with him, are most unwelcome bores.
A syntax-teacher rears a host of grammar’s sons,
With whom his syntax passes for the sun of suns.
A teacher who inculcates abnegation’s creed,
Surrounds himself with pupils free from lust and greed.
But at the hour of death, of science’s long roll,
The art of poverty’s what most behoves man’s soul.
A syntax-teacher, once, was mounted in a boat,Who to the skipper turned, as soon as e’er afloat,595And asked: “Hast studied syntax?” “No indeed,” quoth he.The teacher then: “Thy life’s half-wasted! Dost thou see?”The skipper felt heart-broken at this pert remark;But, for the moment, held his peace;—wise man’s bulwark.The wind arose; the bark was sorely tempest-tossed;The skipper then addressed the teacher, sickness-crossed:“Knowest thou the swimmer’s art, good friend? With speed reply.”“Nay,” said the teacher, “that’s an art the schools decry.”The skipper now remarked: “Thy whole life’s gone to waste.The ship must go to pieces. Water salt thou’lt taste.600With syncope, not syntax, now we’ll have to deal.With syncope, from water comes nor hurt, nor weal,The sea bears on its surface bodies of the dead;But living men it drowns; them sinks, as though of lead.So soon as thou’lt be dead to every human artTo thee eternity its secrets will impart.Thou hitherto hast deemed us mortals asses all;Now thou thyself, as ass on ice, must have a fall.Although thou be the very Plato of the age,Thou’st still to learn that time, the world, is but a page.”605
A syntax-teacher, once, was mounted in a boat,
Who to the skipper turned, as soon as e’er afloat,595
And asked: “Hast studied syntax?” “No indeed,” quoth he.
The teacher then: “Thy life’s half-wasted! Dost thou see?”
The skipper felt heart-broken at this pert remark;
But, for the moment, held his peace;—wise man’s bulwark.
The wind arose; the bark was sorely tempest-tossed;
The skipper then addressed the teacher, sickness-crossed:
“Knowest thou the swimmer’s art, good friend? With speed reply.”
“Nay,” said the teacher, “that’s an art the schools decry.”
The skipper now remarked: “Thy whole life’s gone to waste.
The ship must go to pieces. Water salt thou’lt taste.600
With syncope, not syntax, now we’ll have to deal.
With syncope, from water comes nor hurt, nor weal,
The sea bears on its surface bodies of the dead;
But living men it drowns; them sinks, as though of lead.
So soon as thou’lt be dead to every human art
To thee eternity its secrets will impart.
Thou hitherto hast deemed us mortals asses all;
Now thou thyself, as ass on ice, must have a fall.
Although thou be the very Plato of the age,
Thou’st still to learn that time, the world, is but a page.”605
This tale about the syntax-teacher we’ve tacked on,To show the grammar dissolution turns upon.All syntax, grammar, jurisprudence, law, and art,Thou’lt find, my friend, of knowledge is but a small part.Our little learning is the Arab’s water-pot.In Caliph, of God’s wisdom we’ve an emblem got.We bring our pot of water to great Tigris’ stream.If we ourselves not asses call, us asses deem.The Arab of our tale excusable was,—troth;He knew not of a Tigris. Where’s the Arab doth?610Had he, as we, known Tigris’ stream, and all its store,His water-pot had never travelled to its shore;Had he become aware of what a Tigris meant,Arrived at Bagdād, he’d his pot to fragments sent.
This tale about the syntax-teacher we’ve tacked on,
To show the grammar dissolution turns upon.
All syntax, grammar, jurisprudence, law, and art,
Thou’lt find, my friend, of knowledge is but a small part.
Our little learning is the Arab’s water-pot.
In Caliph, of God’s wisdom we’ve an emblem got.
We bring our pot of water to great Tigris’ stream.
If we ourselves not asses call, us asses deem.
The Arab of our tale excusable was,—troth;
He knew not of a Tigris. Where’s the Arab doth?610
Had he, as we, known Tigris’ stream, and all its store,
His water-pot had never travelled to its shore;
Had he become aware of what a Tigris meant,
Arrived at Bagdād, he’d his pot to fragments sent.
The Caliph, when he saw that pot, and heard that tale,The vase had filled with golden sequins, like a bale,Our Arab thus to free from poverty’s rude grasp;—A robe of honour, too; and presents for his clasp,He ordered. Then the whole unto the guards were sent,With kindliest injunctions, fruit of good intent:615“That all unto that Arab man be safely given,Whose journey home by Tigris’ arrowy stream be driven.By land he came; he’d travelled all the way on foot;But Tigris’ stream may bear him back a shorter route.”
The Caliph, when he saw that pot, and heard that tale,
The vase had filled with golden sequins, like a bale,
Our Arab thus to free from poverty’s rude grasp;—
A robe of honour, too; and presents for his clasp,
He ordered. Then the whole unto the guards were sent,
With kindliest injunctions, fruit of good intent:615
“That all unto that Arab man be safely given,
Whose journey home by Tigris’ arrowy stream be driven.
By land he came; he’d travelled all the way on foot;
But Tigris’ stream may bear him back a shorter route.”
Our Arab in a boat was placed at river’s side;The stream he saw, admired, bowed low, lost all his pride;Exclaiming: “Wondrous goodness of the sovereign will!Th’ acceptance of my water-pot more wondrous still!How could that sea of wealth my drop deign to accept,And largely thus to recompense the trifle kept?”620
Our Arab in a boat was placed at river’s side;
The stream he saw, admired, bowed low, lost all his pride;
Exclaiming: “Wondrous goodness of the sovereign will!
Th’ acceptance of my water-pot more wondrous still!
How could that sea of wealth my drop deign to accept,
And largely thus to recompense the trifle kept?”620
Know now, my friend, this world’s one mighty water-pot,With wisdom and with beauty teeming; as all wot.One drop, however, ’tis, from ocean of His grace,Whose fulness cannot be confined in any place.That treasure latent was. Through fulness it burst forth,More glorious than the heavens became thenceforth the earth.The latent treasure, pouring out its riches great,The earth made kinglike, clothed with more than regal state.One little branch canal from th’ ocean of God’s grace,Thus overwhelms this mighty water-pot of space.625
Know now, my friend, this world’s one mighty water-pot,
With wisdom and with beauty teeming; as all wot.
One drop, however, ’tis, from ocean of His grace,
Whose fulness cannot be confined in any place.
That treasure latent was. Through fulness it burst forth,
More glorious than the heavens became thenceforth the earth.
The latent treasure, pouring out its riches great,
The earth made kinglike, clothed with more than regal state.
One little branch canal from th’ ocean of God’s grace,
Thus overwhelms this mighty water-pot of space.625
They who see God are ever rapt in ecstasy;And raptured, hold that water-pot mere fallacy.O thou! envy of whom is to that pot a stone!Though fractured by the shock, the pot yields sounder tone.The pot is cracked; but, still, its water is not spilt;The crack’s the very source through which it’s sounder built.The jar’s each single particle’s in dance and revery,Though unto man’s poor wisdom this seems foolery.The pot, the world, all it contains, are lost to view.Consider well this fact! God knows it’s simply true.630
They who see God are ever rapt in ecstasy;
And raptured, hold that water-pot mere fallacy.
O thou! envy of whom is to that pot a stone!
Though fractured by the shock, the pot yields sounder tone.
The pot is cracked; but, still, its water is not spilt;
The crack’s the very source through which it’s sounder built.
The jar’s each single particle’s in dance and revery,
Though unto man’s poor wisdom this seems foolery.
The pot, the world, all it contains, are lost to view.
Consider well this fact! God knows it’s simply true.630
If thou canst grasp this meaning, thou’rt like falcon strong.Beat, then, the pinions of thy thoughts. Be hawk, ere long.Thought’s pinions are bemired in thee, and heavy move;Because thou feedest on clay; clay’s bread to thee, I’ll prove.As flesh, bread is but clay. Trust not thereon for strength;Or thou’lt remain, claylike, within the earth at length.
If thou canst grasp this meaning, thou’rt like falcon strong.
Beat, then, the pinions of thy thoughts. Be hawk, ere long.
Thought’s pinions are bemired in thee, and heavy move;
Because thou feedest on clay; clay’s bread to thee, I’ll prove.
As flesh, bread is but clay. Trust not thereon for strength;
Or thou’lt remain, claylike, within the earth at length.
Dost hunger? What art thou, then, but a dog?Fierce, ill-affected, raging; lusts thy vitals clog!And when with food thou’rt filled, polluted straight becomest.Thou losest strength and sense; mere stock, thou sleep welcomest.635So, being doglike or a stock, senseless, impure,How canst thou progress make in path of virtue, sure?Whatever ’tis thou huntest, dog thou art, in sooth.Feed not, then, thus, the dog of lust’s voracious tooth.When dogs are satisfied, obedience they forswear;To follow up the game they one and all forbear.
Dost hunger? What art thou, then, but a dog?
Fierce, ill-affected, raging; lusts thy vitals clog!
And when with food thou’rt filled, polluted straight becomest.
Thou losest strength and sense; mere stock, thou sleep welcomest.635
So, being doglike or a stock, senseless, impure,
How canst thou progress make in path of virtue, sure?
Whatever ’tis thou huntest, dog thou art, in sooth.
Feed not, then, thus, the dog of lust’s voracious tooth.
When dogs are satisfied, obedience they forswear;
To follow up the game they one and all forbear.
His want it was disposed the Arab of our tale,To travel till he’d reached the Caliph’s courtly vale.We’ve shown the bounty of that sovereign merciful,Shed on the Arab’s wretchedness, most plentiful.640
His want it was disposed the Arab of our tale,
To travel till he’d reached the Caliph’s courtly vale.
We’ve shown the bounty of that sovereign merciful,
Shed on the Arab’s wretchedness, most plentiful.640
Whate’er a lover says, the sentiment of loveShines through his words, if but thoughts towards his mistress rove.Discourses he on law, love furnishes the theme;Throughout his labouring periods, love’s the enthymeme.Should blasphemy rise to his lips, of faith it smacks.Doubt, when by him expressed, shows confidence’s knacks.The spume that rises from the sea of his pure heartPartakes the nature of its source, truth’s counterpart.We must esteem such spume as foam of mountain-rill;—Upbraiding from a lip beloved is worshipped still.645Attention we pay not to harsh words issuing thence;—The features we adore divest them of offence.However strange such utterances, they all seem true;The stranger they appear, to sense they lend more cue.
Whate’er a lover says, the sentiment of love
Shines through his words, if but thoughts towards his mistress rove.
Discourses he on law, love furnishes the theme;
Throughout his labouring periods, love’s the enthymeme.
Should blasphemy rise to his lips, of faith it smacks.
Doubt, when by him expressed, shows confidence’s knacks.
The spume that rises from the sea of his pure heart
Partakes the nature of its source, truth’s counterpart.
We must esteem such spume as foam of mountain-rill;—
Upbraiding from a lip beloved is worshipped still.645
Attention we pay not to harsh words issuing thence;—
The features we adore divest them of offence.
However strange such utterances, they all seem true;
The stranger they appear, to sense they lend more cue.
If sugar we should cast in mould to look like bread,Then eat it, we the sugar taste. Form’s of no stead.Should true believer golden idol light upon,Will he for worship set it up, anon, anon?Nay! To the fire he’ll quickly it in wrath consign,And strip it of the form that makes it sin’s foul sign.650The gold, abstracted from the idol’s form, is pure.That form it is corrupts,—can men to sin allure.The gold’s an essence fixed, produced by nature’s God;The idol stamp is transitory;—soon downtrod.Thou for one flea to flames thy bed wouldst never give;For one musquito’s hum, not wish to cease to live.If form-entrapped thou be, idolater thou art!Eschew mere form; attend to essence, as thy part.Art bound on pilgrimage? Seek other pilgrims out;—Be they from Hind, from Tatary, or Hadramout.655Peer not into their features; look not at their skins.Inquire their thoughts, their hearts;—if these be free of sins.A negro findest thou one with thee in faith and creed?Him deem a white;—thy brother is he in thy need.
If sugar we should cast in mould to look like bread,
Then eat it, we the sugar taste. Form’s of no stead.
Should true believer golden idol light upon,
Will he for worship set it up, anon, anon?
Nay! To the fire he’ll quickly it in wrath consign,
And strip it of the form that makes it sin’s foul sign.650
The gold, abstracted from the idol’s form, is pure.
That form it is corrupts,—can men to sin allure.
The gold’s an essence fixed, produced by nature’s God;
The idol stamp is transitory;—soon downtrod.
Thou for one flea to flames thy bed wouldst never give;
For one musquito’s hum, not wish to cease to live.
If form-entrapped thou be, idolater thou art!
Eschew mere form; attend to essence, as thy part.
Art bound on pilgrimage? Seek other pilgrims out;—
Be they from Hind, from Tatary, or Hadramout.655
Peer not into their features; look not at their skins.
Inquire their thoughts, their hearts;—if these be free of sins.
A negro findest thou one with thee in faith and creed?
Him deem a white;—thy brother is he in thy need.
Our tale is told. Its ups and downs are manifold.Like lovers’ thoughts, it’s wandering, unconnected, bold.Commencement it has none;—eternity’s its sign;—Still less conclusion;—so, eternity’s design.Or, rather, it’s like water;—every drop, so rich,Commencement is, and end;—yet shows not which is which.660
Our tale is told. Its ups and downs are manifold.
Like lovers’ thoughts, it’s wandering, unconnected, bold.
Commencement it has none;—eternity’s its sign;—
Still less conclusion;—so, eternity’s design.
Or, rather, it’s like water;—every drop, so rich,
Commencement is, and end;—yet shows not which is which.660
But, God forbid! Our story’s not a fable. See!Its narrative’s a point concerns both me and thee!A gnostic, in possession of his wits and sense,Repeats not what is past;—he bides the present tense.
But, God forbid! Our story’s not a fable. See!
Its narrative’s a point concerns both me and thee!
A gnostic, in possession of his wits and sense,
Repeats not what is past;—he bides the present tense.
The Arab, his poor pitcher, Caliph, all, observe,Ourselves are. “He shall swerve whom God shall cause to swerve!”322Our Arab, know, ’s the mind; his wife, our lusts and greed.These two are tenebrous; the mind’s the torch they need.Now hear whence has arisen the ground of their dispute:Th’ infinite finites holds, of various attribute;—665Parts finite;—not parts infinite of th’ infinite,Like scent of rose,—part infinite of definite.The verdure’s beauty infinite is, as a part;The cooing of the dove’s as infinite, in logic art.But go we not too far afield for sorts and kinds;Or poor disciples ne’er will slake their thirsting minds.
The Arab, his poor pitcher, Caliph, all, observe,
Ourselves are. “He shall swerve whom God shall cause to swerve!”322
Our Arab, know, ’s the mind; his wife, our lusts and greed.
These two are tenebrous; the mind’s the torch they need.
Now hear whence has arisen the ground of their dispute:
Th’ infinite finites holds, of various attribute;—665
Parts finite;—not parts infinite of th’ infinite,
Like scent of rose,—part infinite of definite.
The verdure’s beauty infinite is, as a part;
The cooing of the dove’s as infinite, in logic art.
But go we not too far afield for sorts and kinds;
Or poor disciples ne’er will slake their thirsting minds.
Dost doubt? Art racked with difficulties? To excess?Have patience. “Patience is the key of all success!”323Be abstinent. Let not thy crowding thoughts run wild.Thoughts lions are, and antelopes. Mind’s forest; child!670
Dost doubt? Art racked with difficulties? To excess?
Have patience. “Patience is the key of all success!”323
Be abstinent. Let not thy crowding thoughts run wild.
Thoughts lions are, and antelopes. Mind’s forest; child!670
The prime of remedies is abstinence, we know.And scratching irritates the itch;—as leeches show.Of treatment medical the base is abstinence.Therefore be abstinent. Show strength of mind and sense.Accept my counsel. Lend an ear as I advise;In golden earrings, counsel’s pearls shall be thy prize.Be thou as slave to this, my cunning goldsmith-art;I’ll teach thee how to soar beyond the stars’ bright chart.Know, first of all, creation’s minds are manifold,As are its forms;—from Alpha to Omega told.675From this variety, disorder seems to rise;Though, in true sense, to unity the series hies.In one sense, they’re discordant; other, in accord;They now as folly, now as wisdom, pass a word.The day of judgment will to each assign its place;All men of wisdom yearn to see that day of grace.
The prime of remedies is abstinence, we know.
And scratching irritates the itch;—as leeches show.
Of treatment medical the base is abstinence.
Therefore be abstinent. Show strength of mind and sense.
Accept my counsel. Lend an ear as I advise;
In golden earrings, counsel’s pearls shall be thy prize.
Be thou as slave to this, my cunning goldsmith-art;
I’ll teach thee how to soar beyond the stars’ bright chart.
Know, first of all, creation’s minds are manifold,
As are its forms;—from Alpha to Omega told.675
From this variety, disorder seems to rise;
Though, in true sense, to unity the series hies.
In one sense, they’re discordant; other, in accord;
They now as folly, now as wisdom, pass a word.
The day of judgment will to each assign its place;
All men of wisdom yearn to see that day of grace.
He who, as blackamoor, is steeped in sin’s dark dye,In that dread day shall gulp dishonour’s foulest lye.The wretch whose countenance beams not bright as the sun,Shall strive in vain behind the densest veil to run.680If, like some thorns, his stem display no single rose,That springtide will prove fatal to his safe repose.But he that blooms from head to foot with righteous deeds,With joy shall welcome spring’s awakening of those meads.
He who, as blackamoor, is steeped in sin’s dark dye,
In that dread day shall gulp dishonour’s foulest lye.
The wretch whose countenance beams not bright as the sun,
Shall strive in vain behind the densest veil to run.680
If, like some thorns, his stem display no single rose,
That springtide will prove fatal to his safe repose.
But he that blooms from head to foot with righteous deeds,
With joy shall welcome spring’s awakening of those meads.
The useless thorn desires the nipping wintry blast,To lay all low and simplify the flowery vast;That so, all beauty cloaked, all squalor hid, the same,All glorious hues, all hideous sights, be rendered tame.The leaf’s fall to such thorn more grateful is than spring;The ruby and the flint are one in tithesman’s ring.685True, that the gardener’s eye in winter knows the thorn;But what is one eye’s scrutiny to general scorn!
The useless thorn desires the nipping wintry blast,
To lay all low and simplify the flowery vast;
That so, all beauty cloaked, all squalor hid, the same,
All glorious hues, all hideous sights, be rendered tame.
The leaf’s fall to such thorn more grateful is than spring;
The ruby and the flint are one in tithesman’s ring.685
True, that the gardener’s eye in winter knows the thorn;
But what is one eye’s scrutiny to general scorn!
The vulgar public is, as ’twere, one witless wight;Each star’s a clipping of the moon, in its fond sight.Not so great men of wisdom, radiant with troth,They shout with joy: “Good tidings! Spring breaks into growth!”
The vulgar public is, as ’twere, one witless wight;
Each star’s a clipping of the moon, in its fond sight.
Not so great men of wisdom, radiant with troth,
They shout with joy: “Good tidings! Spring breaks into growth!”
Unless the flowers blossom on the fertile trees,How can the fruit be gathered, honey store the bees?The flowers blow and fade; the fruit begins to swell.So, when our bodies die, our souls in glory dwell.690The fruit’s reality; the flower is but a sign;The flower’s the harbinger; the fruit, the true design.The flower blown and past, the fruit then comes in sight;The first must perish ere the other can see light.Unless a loaf be broke, no nutriment it yields;Until the grapes are crushed, no cup of wine man wields.So drugs, to prove a solace to the sufferer’s ache,Together must be blended, rolled in one smooth cake.694
Unless the flowers blossom on the fertile trees,
How can the fruit be gathered, honey store the bees?
The flowers blow and fade; the fruit begins to swell.
So, when our bodies die, our souls in glory dwell.690
The fruit’s reality; the flower is but a sign;
The flower’s the harbinger; the fruit, the true design.
The flower blown and past, the fruit then comes in sight;
The first must perish ere the other can see light.
Unless a loaf be broke, no nutriment it yields;
Until the grapes are crushed, no cup of wine man wields.
So drugs, to prove a solace to the sufferer’s ache,
Together must be blended, rolled in one smooth cake.694