Personal
Folk and their opinions.
THE PEOPLE’S prate without a root would grow,
All worldly weal is nothing as you know;
Why should you fret and foam with idle grief?
In life’s mirage, why speak of ebb or flow?
Their words are winds—are cent. per cent.discount,
Be calm and cheerful, but on no account
Build castles in the air, for aught they say;
For world had many who have ceased to count.
As world reformers fools will go about
In self-esteem, at others they will flout;
Be calm—if you be not an ass with them—
They call you faithless, and will ban you out.
In dust they cast you if you soar in skies,
If you are free they bind with thousand ties;
Emerge from darkness into light. Avoid
Hurting His creatures.—This will save your sighs.
Men try to glow in love but end in smoke,
I hold no hope of good from all this folk;
I lift my hands, He shields me from His fate,
I clutch at men, then comes the fatal stroke!
Some roam in paths of creed, its forms and rite,
Some grope in doubts and dogmas and their plight;
Then comes a voice from unseen “Know ye not
The way, for neither this nor that is right.”
Fellows of Graves pursue their dusty course,
Their atoms each repulse the rest by force.
O what a spell this wine of Death has cast,
It strips them from their “Selves” and worldly
sores.
In search of Him no night the fool has spent,
And stripped of self and pride he never went;
An ass in lion’s skin he goes, and brays,
And slanders noble souls—that is his bent.
We can’t untie this knot of tangle-land,;
For stripped of Self we cannot step or stand.
From pupils to the masters I survey
And each, since he was born, has naught in hand.
Behind the curtain none has found his way,
His secret is not such as we could say;
And each repeats the dirge his fancy taught,
Which has no sense—but never ends the lay.
Your fellow pilgrims lead you far astray,
The blind they know not night from light of day;
And as you ply your path the sky would say:
“The truth will soon in Mystic eyes display.”
Some say, that when they die they go to sleep,
And till they rise, a perfect silence keep;
No wonder, none of them has told his tale,
Bereft of sight thro’ light how could they peep?
Some sects, through knowledge, fall a prey to
pride;
And others pray and pine for Houri bride;
Isis unveiled! and each and all will know,
How far and farther from Thy path they stride.
The zealot from his prayer won’t advance,
The mystic loves his trance and even dance;
But no one knows with whom the Lord is pleased,
Yet each affirms that He bestowed a glance.
The fool in motley hides a greedy heart,
As pure and true he never made a start,
But cants some meagre phrases which he stole,
Thus mars some noble soils—that’s all his art.
These folks are sorry asses, they will bray
Like busy hollow sounding drums at fray;
O! if you wish that should kiss your feet,
Acquire a fame, to Kudos they will pray.
These Noble Lords who lead the worldly van,
Are sick of life, their hides alone they tan;
But strange! I shun the yoke of greed they bear:–
The beasts! They call me “beast” and not a man.
Belleterists filled themselves with learned lore,
In friend’s assemblies what a light they bore!
But could not step outside this shady night,
They spun a yarn n, and then—began to snore.
The Old or New have all their passage booked,
And each will eat the porridge he has cooked.
This World is base, will bind herself to none,
On all who came and went she coldly looked.
Some boosers pull their pure and sober wine,
Some watch at nights in niches of their shrine;
But both are drowned in undercurrent flows,
The One alone awakes, the rest supine.
The men who scan the skies, and earth adorn,
Would come and go, with earth they shall be born.
But higher spiritual planes retain the souls
Of saints who rise with Lord in future Morn.
Those men to whom the Master’s tidings reach,
Withdraw from world, and at His door beseach;
And when they see the Master through the door,
They get their sight, go nigh, and lose their speech.
Some strove as friends and mates from time of birth,
They had their balls and dances full of mirth,
They drank their potions, and were deadly drunk,
So slept at last in bosom of the earth.
Some saints, the pick of the world and all therein,
Have mounted skies and see all things within;
But then in knowing Thee, like starry spheres,
They roll their heads, and turn away, and spin.
Some rovers plod the earth and wear it out,
In both domains they ever scour and scout
In search of Him—I know not if or ever
They know the truth, and what they beat about.
Some men surnamed as “Tattered Felts” we meet,
They drink a gill, a crust of bread they eat;
And they have claimed to be some pious saints:–
No saints—we know that these are feints to cheat.
Some ruled the world, they wished to make it tame
But left it here and went the way they came.
You think that you will stay for ever here,
Your fathers too from first had thought the same!
In training intellect some people toil,
In end they yoke their oxen, till the soil;
‘Tis meet they wear the motley of a fool—
Then go in gown and hood when hawking oil.
Some strung the pearls of thought by searching deep,
And some told some tales about Him,– sold them cheap;
But none has caught a clue to secret realms,
They cast an horoscope and fall in sleep.
Entangled in their mind some men have thought,
Their search for “Is” or “Is not” came to nought,
Go! Know that He exists, so take His Word,
For unripe minds are only made to rot.
And those who practice cheating as an art
Maintain that life and body live apart;
These coxcomb fools! I’ll stake my jug for head,
If cock’s comb on my pate they could impart.
Men make with beads and stoles an outward show,
Deceit with halter leads them, I trow;
What’s more amazing, but that guised as saints,
They sell their creed but worse than heathens go.
The folk who ply to gain some rank or place,
Go helpless paupers when they spend their days;
Inert and feeble thus they tell the death:
“Why make and mar—suffice His holy grace.”
Who views a goodly act with goodly grace,
In world he stands before Him face to face.
Behold a tailor sows the seams one side,
And then on other side the lace displays.
Personal.
My evil fame has soared above the skies.
My joyless life above its thirty flies;
But if I could, I’d drink a hundred toasts
For life so safe and freed from wedlock ties.
The One who decks with smiling lips the fair
Gives hearts to lovers that would bleed and wear;
He gave no joys for me, but glad I feel
For thousand pangs I ever have to bear.
To Critics.
We heathen lovers are not men of creed,
We harness not the air, as ants we speed;
With faces wan and with our shattered hearts,
We call no custom, for we have no greed.
If wine I shun, ill-bred as boor I go,
By drinking oft in world would slander grow;
A prince or sage or saint should drink his wine,
If thou be none of three, ‘tis deadly foe!
Before my soul and body go apart,
I do what gives the greatest bliss to heart;
And plague on him! who goes and slanders me,
If I have sores, then I alone will smart!
And now to please my heart I have thy Name,
Save Word my friends have left ah! as they came;
I clasp it firm ‘tis only joy I have,
Save heart there’s naught I have to play my game.
To adversaries.
I wield a sword, an answer, sharp utmost,
With this I conquer all who taunt and boast;
A broiling heart my foe has for my meat,
His skull is full of rum—so rum my toast.
The mystic souls who rule over all they see,
They drink in Master’s shrine their toasts to me;
These pietists have to learn their tricks of trade
From me and then rehearse in galilee.
O Rector! Grant a boon I beg of thee:–
Suspend thy speech, let God look after me.
My path is right, but seest thou perverse;
Ah! heal thy eyes, avaunt! and set me free!
They say that wine is foul, I like it more,
And best when served by beauties I adore;
Tho’ bitter and forbidden, I relish:
We relish what they forbid, yea of yore!
Expert at rites! you know not what they mean,
Don’t look at mystics with your envious mien;
They think of Lord and all His graceful works,
While you talk of filth and things unclean.
Since know I not how long I hold this place,
So loveless life I feel a great disgrace;
Why talk of old or new?—O worthy sage!
I go, let world have old or new her face.
With hand which grasps the grail my heart and soul,
‘Twere shame if book and pulpit I control!
See thou dry canter! I’m immersed in love,
A fire which burns the wood will quench at shoal.
With Church or pulpit I can ne’er succeed
He kneaded me, for what he knows indeed;
As heathen wretch or haggard whore I go,
No creed, no greed—from hopes of heaven freed.
Two crumbs and corner, this is all I take,
The rest in world I leave for Beloved’s sake;
I purchased poverty with heart and soul,
But see, in this, the fortune I make.
Without a grain of grief we sate sedate,
We ate at dawn, for dinner do not wait;
Since master’s kitchen sends a dish prepared,
We beg no crumbs from any mortal’s plate.
I won’t deceive nor ever will be vexed,
His Word in solitude is all my text;
I will not burn for fuel which they add,
I’ll bear with bad, for good I’ve no pretext.
How long to folk my ignorance I plead?
My puzzled heart is blind and cannot lead.
I long to wear these heathen stoles, and why?—
Now know ye all—I really loathe my creed.
Henceforward, I’d abandon this my creed,
For foresight ends in only grief and greed;
Henceforward, I’d abandon sleep for love,
For later on I sleep for long indeed.
I may not find the rose but have this thorn,
I may not gain His bliss but lie forlorn;
Though pulpits, gowns and beads I cannot claim,
I have His shrine and conch, and all your scorn.
The heart can never know the grain from snares,
One turns to songs, one has his temple cares;
Howev’r ‘tis meet to roast in Mystic Shrine,
Than go in dark with light which only flares.
I once befriended Learned Lore and Mind,
I fancied I had reached at last The Find;
Alas! that Lore but proved a public whore,
And fie on Mind which acted like a blind.
From bonds of fancies I have never strayed,
Nor for a moment sung His name or prayed;
Apprenticed to this world through all my life,
I’m yet a novice in her arts and trade.
As Self would melt, Existence I attain,
With soaring pride I sink to lower plane;
And more than this with wine of Existence,
The more I wake, more drunken I remain.
I have my business with His Wine and trance,
But why should folk upbraid and look askance?
I long that folk would all be drunken fools—
So world may once enjoy a jolly dance.
For long we drank the gall of woe and waste,
With fasts and vigils that we may be chaste!
Our hearts are filled, O Lord! with holy vine,
Ay do not forbid that we may not taste.
When did I sell a title, post, or crown?
But for a song I’ll sell my hood and gown;
And beads, the harbingers of evil deeds,
I fling for Master’s word lest He may frown.
We tear our gowns, and dress as motley fools,
We lave in Tavern and its dust and pools;
For in that Mystic Shrine we hope to gain
The life we lost thro’ learning in the schools.
I fling this Self away, and joys I greet,
I soared from dismal depths to Master’s seat;
Till cleansed at last from all my carnal grease,
I cling as golden dust to Master’s feet.
We lovers all adore the Mystic Wine
Abide in lanes which lead to Master’s Shrine;
And free of good or bad, and doubts or thoughts,
We senseless life, enrapt in love Divine.
We are for ever rapt in spirit true,
We meet and there have Heart and love the two;
Raw Zealot! spare thyself from teaching us,
We worship Word of Friend who kissed us too.
I am the crown of mystics of the shrine,
I fell from right to wrong, so I repine;
Through all the weary night I sing His name,
And pray with bleeding heart “Lord! I am thine.”
My Ego leads to pride and disbelief,
For faith my Ego is support in chief;
The world has Ego, that an infidel,
Can one attain to faith and right belief?
You slander me, in spite of your assaults,
I thank you for I wake, and see my faults;
I admit all my faults, but think awhile,
It seems you store this malice in your vaults!
When Guide will give His life imparting glow,
If fortune kissed my feet, I spurn it so!
You say I should in mature age recant,
How could that be when Lord will not allow?
The world’s a cipher—Here’s a cipher mine—
I only think of love and lucid wine.
They say may He evert thee from thy wine,
He wont—and if her would, then I resign.
Think not that I exist myself, beware!
Nor that I chose this den of beast and bear;
“To be or not to be” is of His Being
What was the Ego, when was it, and where?
On Heaven and Hell.
Creator, when He moulded first my clay,
Knew all the parts which I would have to play;
Had He decreed the good or bad in me,
Why should He burn me then on Furnace-day?
The faithful never burns in fire of hell,
But all his sins are burnt, and that is well;
I dipped my hand in wine and held in flame,
It burnt the wine, not hand, so I tell.
Say not that Grace with ease cannot be sought,
Repent, for He is not as what you thought;
Such youthful lads and with such lovely voice,
If now they vow, then faith will count to naught.
The day ye bend beneath your sinful weight,
You find His grace alone a faithful mate;
He tarries dealing with you for a time,
So may, by lapse of time, His wrath abate.
They say on judgment day when we would meet,
That Beloved Friend in anger will mistreat.
That Perfect Grace bestoweth not but good,
Be happy, in the end you see His feet.
Away with vanities, or paving sea,
No idols I worship, so I am free;
To-night I stay with graceful lads of Shrine,
In hell or heav’n I see Him, Him I see.
Unlucky, ugly, though with sins I swell,
But like a heathen do not languish—Well—
In trance I die, I crave for Him and Word,
Let Heaven or Hell be quarters where I dwell.
I know not when He made me from his Word,
If bliss on Heav’n or bane on Hell conferred.
A cup, His image, lute, and jungle site,
I hold this cash, thy Heav’n is bill deferred.
My loving heart, with Guide, and garden site,
This cash I count, let Heaven go to plight;
Why list the gossip of some Heaven or Hell?
Who goes to Hell, or comes from Heaven’s height?
The spring, and angel, brook, and jug of wine,
Your heaven is made when four would here combine;
Were I to gasp for heav’n and drop this bit,
Excuse me please—for worse than dog I whine.
My mind may ever dwell on Grace Divine,
My heart may ever fill with holy wine;
Ye say that Lord may make me once repent—
He won’t, of course I won’t, for I decline.
The zealot longs for heav’n, his zeal is spent,
To hell, for testing, lovers may be sent,
They say no grief or pain is felt in heav’n,
‘Tis then the place where hardened souls are pent.
I asked my heart: “What heavens should I seek?”
The heart replied: “The wise thus never speak”
I said: “But all affirm that there’s a heaven!”
Replied “Of course they all will eat the leek.”
On Sensual Heaven.
They say “In Heaven Houris come to greet,
And rivers flow with honey pure and sweet.”
‘Tis meet we worship then our wife and wine,
For in the end with wife and wine we meet.
They say that Heaven has golden ruby parks,
And nectar streams with ever singing larks;
No thanks.—Just fill a jug of beer for me:–
A groat is more than thousand Paper Marks.
None ever saw the “Heaven” or the “Hell,”
And none has thence returned, so who can tell?
We hope and fear for places which forsooth
Are merely words, where none can ever dwell.
Better to drink and dance with rosy fairs,
Than cheat the folk with doubtful pious wares;
Tho’ drunkards, so they say, are doomed to hell,
To go to heaven with cheats who ever cares?
Word old or new is good to stock and use,
I long for Word, throw heaven as base refuse,
Ye ask me after death where I’d abide:–
Give me His Word and go to—where ye choose!
Where’er I see I find His holy grace,
This lawn is heaven, His love is filled in space;
His kingdom comes in forest, do not mope,
Stay here in heaven with an angel face.
They say “In hell will all the drunkards land”
Absurd! This cant will not to reason stand;
If love and drink would bring a man to hell,
Then heaven is vacant like an empty hand.
They tell “In Heaven angels come to greet!”
I say “The juice of Vine, in truth, is sweet.”
Rely on cash, credits are bad assets,
We bear with drums when further far they beat.
The Lord in Heaven promised mead Divine,
Thus here or there when did he ban the wine?
Hamza an Arab lamed a camel once,
Our Prophet banned the wine for him, as fine.
I drink my mead—but folk now intercede,
“Drink not this mead, ‘tis foe of faith” they plead;
So wine is foe of faith! By God! I drink,
‘Tis right to rid this world of foes of creed.
The creature who above his level soared,
Is hated by his foes who raise the sword;
You say to deal in glass in faithless sin,
Then praise the rustic who will shape a gourd.
Anon! the pious people would advise,
That as we die we rise up fools or wise;
‘Tis for this cause we keep with wife and wine,
For in the end with same we hope to rise.
I unite bowl and wine my heart and head,
By drinking twain I shall be overfed;
I then divorce my Faith and Wisdom thrice,
And then the daughter of the Vine I wed.
Tho’ wine is forbid, Yea! but who should take?
How much again with whom or for whose sake?
These four essentials when are brought to square,
Who drink? The wise with reason wide awake!
How long, O raw devotee! wilt thou chide?
That we are wrecked, and ever in dreams abide?
Thou hast to count thy beads and show thy gowns,
While we have Him in heart, and Holy bride.
I said “I would not drink red wine again!
‘Tis blood of vine—from murders I refrain”
The Rector said “You say this by His word!”
I said “I joked, for ever I abstain!”
Entranced or drunk I don’t create a scene,
I grasp my cup or heart, ‘tis not obscene;
I worship wine or love, because like you,
I hate to worship pride or haughty mien.
Despite the fact that wine is banned by creed,
I long to taste it, cure for sores I need;
I do adore it, would you know the cause?
So that from bloated pride I may be freed.
They tell me not to drink so deep—the cheek!
They ask my reasons, aye my motives seek!
My grounds are Beloved’s face and song of Dawn.
“Drink deep but taste not” thus a sage would speak!
They say “Hashish is good for men in need,
“’Tis more than wine and tunes of flute and reed;”
But perfect men observe the wholesome rule:
“Do kill these men than spill a drop of mead,”
They tell me not to drink for wine is dire,
And worse than laving in infernal fire;
This is the truth: But for the wink you live
‘Tis meet with wine you shake your “Self” O sire.
They call me “Sinner,” Sir! thus they opine,
I’m sinless Sir! see how they think in fine;
And can they ever name against our creed
What sins I indulged in, save lust and wine?
I labour hard, O mayor! more than thee,
With drink in me far sober I can be;
I fleece my lambs, but thou these honest folk,
On whom then comes the curse, on thee or me?
Thou knowest why I never eschew wine,
Because my wine is not so banned as thine;
For worldly goodies wine is banned of course,
For wine which mystics drink, I pay the fine!
Look up, O Sage! don’t merely catechise,
And stop that lad from cramming earthly lies;
For names of rotten kings and distant stars
Have swept his brain and dimmed his dreaming eyes.
In learned circles life is vapid, stale,
No harp or flute is there, no heart is hale;
I see the drunkards now eschew their wine,
Save censor, who with pride patrols his jail.
They say we should some trade or art uphold,
Or title, ranks or pedigrees unfold;
But now the things have changed, for in our times,
Men do not want these honours but your gold.
I love Him, so the worthy ones who wot,
With them to love is easier than not;
He knew me first, I loved and I conceived,
Science Divine, unless I love, will rot.
You say that sin is innate. Not at all,
Such formulæ the wise do not forestall;
To think that Source of Knowledge fostered sins—
Results in “gross absurd” as wise men call.
On Fasts and Prayers.
In ways of fast and prayers I was cast,
I thought that I had reached my goal at last;
Alas! a wind—and ablutions were foiled—
Alas! a sip of wine could break the fast!
In Sha’aban some folk refrain from wine,
And so in Rajab known as month Divine;
These months for Lord and Prophet they have
marked,
Now wine of Ramadan is wholly mine.
Some say ere Lent, Ash Wedn’sday comes in sight,
To stay in taverns then cannot be right;
In Shrove-tide so much whisky I will quaff
That I go drunk in Lent till Easter night.
The fasts have come! for wine we cannot call,
Nor hide in Parks, nor glance at Gaiety Hall;
Our cellars are locked, alas! the dainty girls
Unkissed they go, and leave us once for all.
In days of Lent you catch me eating meat,
But not that our tenets I should defeat;
These fasts have weakened me to such extent,
I thought it was the Easter feast I eat.
This year the Lent has come in longer train,
So revellers feel themselves as tied in chain.
O God! suspend the senses of these folk,
That they think ‘tis Easter Feast again.
Avaunt the fasts! let only feast remain,
When joy and pleasure we have in the main;
This is the time when all concordant souls,
Bring grace and bliss and happiness in chain.
We come to Church, and in our humble way,
To tell the truth, we come here not to pray;
The hats we wear are those we stole from hence,
They’re out of fashion, so we come to-day.
Your heart is sore, then drink a brain of Bhang,
Or pint of beer—and sing the song we sang.
You think them nauseous, Friar! keep your taste,
Then stone will cure you, stone, your pate, and bang!
A Rebuke.
Could you but find a cask of wine somewhere,
Then drink you may at every public fair;
For he who thus behaves would never care
For whiskers which you rear or beard I wear!
Thus spake a parson to a country whore:
“With all your arts you seem an awful bore.”
“I am, O Sire, as you describe” said she,
“But are you what you show, or less or more?”
Unripes, Alas! can taste the ripest fruit,
To rule the realm now comes the raw recruit;
The Turkish lady’s glance, a sport for hearts,
Is won by lackies, slaves who follow suit!
To thee my friend a secret I confide,
That as from first how Adam did abide;
A sorry hack, a mould of clay and grief,
Who tasted world awhile, and went astride.
They spy a Ram and Bull as in the sky,
And say a Bull has lifted earth on high;
And so profound in learning they propound!
Between two bulls these asses you descry.
O you who went and now return as stale,
To men you seem a sorry fairy tale;
Your nails have rolled around in single hoof,
Your beard is sweeping ground a shaggy tail.
The Vampire came from far, the ugly brute—
With smoke of hell he wore the darkest suit;
No man or dame—but then it broke my heart,
And marred my love—my learning, wits, to boot!
————-
Friendship, the book proscribed, we should not hold,
“Affection”—“Valour”, “Friend” are myths of old;
‘Tis meet to keep aloof from all in world,
Adieu from far Miss Pearl and Mister Gold.
Our left hand holds the scriptures, wine the right,
We preach His Love, but often drink and fight;
We are within this dome nor black nor white,
Nor heathens quite nor yet believers quite.
My foe, in slander, has jolly trade,
A fool is he, I call a spade a spade;
In mind his mirror when scans his face
That carcass knoweth not he sees his shade!
They call me Philsuf, foes will so opine,
But Lord! Thou knowest really they malign;
For since I entered this Thy shrine of love,
I know not what I am, but I am Thine!
I bang the door on face of lust and greed,
And thus from earls or churls, remain I freed!
Were I to care for Mosque or Church or Shrine,
He knows and I, His writ my heart would read.
Some call me “Wine Bibber” by name, — I be,
Some call me “Mystic sage” of fame, — I be,
Ye need not scan my outward aspects so,
For in my heart I am the same—I be.
If I am drunk with Magi’s wine, I am,
Or votary from heathen shrine, I am;
Let each suspect me I am this or that—
I am what I am, I am mine, I am.
————-
When hard as stone, they tried to kick and spurn,
When soft as wax they only made me burn;
When wry they bent me to a cracking bow,
Now straight and flung as dart, I won’t return.
What care I if one slanders me to fleece,
No flaw I have he whispers thousand fleas;
I am a mirror, he who looks in me
All good or bad, ‘tis all his own he sees.
————-
We shelter in Thy grace and feel atoned,
From far at sins and merits we have stoned;
For those who gain Thy grace, acquire with ease
Merits unsought and get their faults condoned.
O you avoided good and practiced ill,
And yet on Grace Divine recline you still!
Rely not on His grace. Reap what you sow,
Unsown will never grow, nor sown is nil.
‘Omar refuses to speak.
I see this world and all her wild affairs,
And find all creatures full of useless cares;
Alas! thro’ ev’ry door I try to peep
I find dejection waits for me, and stares.
A swan I was, I flew from regions deep,
I sought to soar to summits with a sweep;
But found no mate who could my secrets keep,
So, through the door I entered, out I leap.
I’ll pack these gowns and vows and showy toys,
With snowy hair with wine I made my choice;
Three score and ten is now my age in years,
And if not now when can I ev’r rejoice?
I passed, and people then began to scold,
That out of hundred gems but one I hold;
Alas! one hundred thousand subtle thoughts
For witless men remain as if untold.
‘Omar retires to Solitude.
Seclusion is the only friend I find,
To good or bad of folk my eyes are blind;
First I must see how I shall fare at last,
Then think of others, if I’m so inclined.
‘Omar tired of life.
How long I brook with Time’s deceitful ways?
How long I bear the pangs awhile it flays?
I cannot bear this tyrant’s blows forsooth,
I spurn and spit on life’s remaining days.
I smother in this cell with smoking heart,
And grieve to walk along its miry part;
Sometimes I think that I should break this cell,
But law is binding, so I can’t depart.
In body’s cramping cage so dull and tame,
I’m sick of dirt, I long for higher game;
Nonentity! I’ll pray thee hundred times,
If thou release my name from my body’s shame.
I languish friends! my diet’s holy mead,
A ruby glow my face will have indeed;
When I decease you lave me with His Word,
For coffin planks a twig of vine I need.
If friends you be, then do not vaunt and boast,
For all my grief compensate by a toast;
And when I die, then use my clay to stop
The chink in Mystic Tavern, that’s my post.
When I be prostrate under slayer’s boot,
And tree of hopeless life is torn from root,
Would that they made a pot of me to hold
His Word, with Word I may to life recruit.
When tree of life at last will droop and fall,
My parts will go to atoms each and all;
But if my clay be moulded into form
And filled with Word, to life ‘tis sure to call.
When all prepared, in coffin I am laid,
With hands you stroke my dust—and not with spade;
When bricks are laid within my dusty grave,
Beware! The clay from wine alone is made.
At death my carcass you should hide away,
The wretch I was to people you can say;
Then with your wines you slowly knead my clay,
That on your jugs my image you display.
Before my cauldron boils in fatal flames,
I’ll clear my pan of dregs with goodly games;
Perchance you make, O potter! jug of me—
Then sell that, please, to those who sing His names.
Fain would I rest, were there a resting place,
And thus avoid for once this endless chase;
By boring core of earth for lakhs of years,
Fain would I bathe as grass in beaming rays.
I’m fed up, Lord! with days where nights are rife,
With empty hands and heart of joyless strife;
From nought as once thou brought an existence,
Exchange my nought for Thy eternal life.
When friends would gather in our Master’s shrine,
And each to each as facing mirrors shine,
When Master holds the Magi wine in hand,
Remember this poor wreck for Grace Divine.
And mates! when ye would meet as guest and host,
Remember Him our Friend think of Him most;
At last when drinking health my turn would come,
Then turn your cups to earth and pour the toast.
Khayyam, who patched the tents of learned lore,
Fell once in kiln of love, and burnt to core;
The shear of death cut all his ties in life,
And all was sold for nothing, and no more.