"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 be—it should be that we
Who drink shall drink of Immortality.
The Master of the Well has much to spare:
Will He say, 'Taste'—then shall we no more be?"
"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."
"And—were it otherwise?... We might erase
The Letter of some Sorrow in whose place
No other sounding, we should fail to spell
The Heart which yearns behind the mock-world's face."
"Well, this I know; whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath—consume me quite,
One flash of it within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright."
"In Temple or in Tavern 't may be lost.
And everywhere that Love hath any Cost
It may be found; the Wrath it seems is but
A Cloud whose Dew should make its power most."
"But see His Presence thro' Creation's veins,
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all—but He remains."