So when the angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And offering you his cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your lips to quaff, you shall not shrink.
Why, if the soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the air of Heaven ride,
Wert not a shame—wert not a shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
'Tis but a tent where takes his one-day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrásh
Strikes, and prepares it for another guest.
And fear not lest Existence, closing your
Account, and mine, shall know the like no more;
The Eternal Sáki from that bowl hath pour'd
Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour.
When you and I behind the veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the world shall last,
Which of our coming and departure heeds
As the Sev'n Seas shall heed a pebble-cast.
A moment's halt—a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the waste,
And lo!—the phantom caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from—O, make haste!
* * *
There was the door to which I found no key;
There was the veil through which I could not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.
* * *
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the two worlds so learnedly are thrust
Like foolish prophets forth; their words to scorn
Are scatter'd and their mouths are stopt with dust.