Classic Poem

In the house of Ibn Mokbil
Stands a vase;
Masters if you ask us
What within its heart is dreaming,
Heart of gold and crystal gleaming,
We shall answer:
All the riches of Damascus,
Cairo or Shiraz.

No man — even Ibn Mokbil —
Ever guessed
Whence it came — who brought it:
But it stood there one fair morning,
All the simple place adorning
With its beauty —
People said the Jinn had wrought it —
Faith is best.

In the house of Ibn Mokbil,
Till it came,
There was nothing. Only
His few books and herbs for healing
And his prayer-mat worn with kneeling,
And the old man,
With his sleepless eyes and lonely
Heart of flame.

Full of woe was Ibn Mokbil
To behold
Brothers overtaken
By misfortune — sitting restless
In his house forlorn and guestless,
With a larder
Empty, and a purse forsaken
Of its gold.

For the spirit of the Faquir
Loved the light,
And the burden weighing
Deeper still with every morrow
Of the people's want and sorrow
Bent and aged him,
And his knees were sore with praying,
Day and night.

Then somehow to Ibn Mokbil
Came the vase,
And the tale would task us,
Half to tell what meat and treasure,
Things of help and things of pleasure,
Overbrimmed it —
All the riches of Damascus,
Cairo or Shiraz.

Now the doors of Ibn Mokbil
Open wide —
Moan is heard no longer —
Now the gifts are overflowing;
Coming round the vase and going,
Crowd the people:
None that ail, and none that hunger
Are denied.

For the vase, a magic fountain,
By unseen
Hands at midnight charging —
Jinn, they say — its store reneweth
Ready for the lip that sueth,
First at morning,
Heaped about the flashing margin,
Gold and green.

Yet one law for Ibn Mokbil,
If he break,
Spoils and ends the treasure:
Round the vase it runs in letters,
Woven like a wreath of fetters,
Not one tittle
Must the Faquir for his pleasure
Touch or take.

Never murmurs Ibn Mokbil,
Nor complains.
Though the fierce and greedy
Enter at his gate for plunder
Scattered by no bolt of thunder,
Yet untroubled,
He a Faquir, poor and needy,
Still remains.

In the house of Ibn Mokbil
Nothing stays,
Of the gifts returning:
All is empty; it is lonely;
Save the books and prayer-mat only,
And the Faquir
With his gleaming eyes and burning
Heart of praise.

For the vase beyond the crystal
To his eyes —
Now when day is sinking —
Opens like a rift of heaven,
And the things of Allah given —
Dreams and visions —
Pour upon his spirit drinking
Paradise.

To the ears of Ibn Mokbil
Angels tell
Tales of how the bringer
Of the faith of old still careth
For the foot that strictly fareth.
As he listens,
Falls a voice divine, the singer,