And he seems to see her sitting
With the tranquil firelight flitting
On her face and fitful knitting,
While her chair goes to and fro;
As she sat once in the hours
That are gone; that, like the flowers,
Died, with all that youth embowers,
Long ago.
Then he seems to hear her speaking,
And her rocker faintly creaking,
And his hand goes dimly seeking
Hers that is not there, ah, no!
Hers, whose memory keeps reaching
From the past fond arms, beseeching
Heart and soul till, past all preaching,
Both o’erflow.
Oh, caresses lost that take him
In his dreams and wildly wake him!
Tears that blind and sighs that shake him,
Is there any cure for woe?—
Answer, love, whose eyes once merried!
Joy, whose cheeks and lips were cherried!
You, whom long ago he buried,
Long ago.
SELF
A Sufi said to me in dreams:
Behold! from Sodomite to Peri
Earth tablets us: man lives and is
Man’s own long commentary.
Is one begat at Bassora,
One lies at Damietta dying—
The plausibilities of God
All possibles o’erlying.
But when lust burns within the flesh—
Hell’s but a homily on Heaven—
Put then the individual first,
And of thyself be shriven.
Neither in adamant nor brass
The scrutinizing eye records it:
The arm is rooted in the heart,
The heart that rules and lords it.
Be that it is and thou art all:
And what thou art so hast thou written
Thee of the lutanists of Love,
Or of the torture-smitten.