On level lines of woodwork stand
My books obedient to my hand;
And Cæsar pale against the wall
Smiles sternly Roman over all.
Within the four walls of this room
Life finds its prison, youth its tomb:
For here the minds of other men
Prompt and deride the labouring pen;
And here the wisdom of the wise
Dances like motes before the eyes.
Outside, the great world spins its way,
Here studious night dogs studious day.
A mighty store of dusty books,
Little and great, fill all the nooks,
And line the walls from roof to floor;

Had I known that you were going
I could have given you,
At least, good speed;
But you slipped away so suddenly
That I was left standing on the shore
Watching into space,
Not knowing that you would never come back
Till I felt the waters of the incoming tide
Cold about my heart.

I do not ask for you again.
I know the sea you sail does not touch these shores.
I only look for a distant “all hail,” like the white crest of a wave against the horizon,
Or a signal light flashing once, sharp against the sky.

Sail on, my bright sturdy mariner!

Under the shade of the riverbank snow lingers on; the moon is shining on the snow
The moon is colorless, so too is the snow
Moonlight and snowbreath twist together, a cold wave of heat shimmers
A flickering, dazzling, white, blue, red slender flame burns
A slender flame flares, flickering, dazzling, white, blue, red
I am told in the north country from within a snow flame the white face of a woman
can be seen
My heart trembles at the raw sound of a woman's voice as if drawing together tightly thin, colored silk
What is she saying?
What is she singing?

He who fears to risk his life,
Or who grudges money spent,
Never will be Chief or Monarch,
Nor will conquered lands be his.
Either the Throne or the Bier;
Such the resting-place of Kings;
He who has not a warrior's heart
Armies bring him no success.

Strange are the pretensions that I have known in this world,
As the cries for mercy of those who have urged them!
Strange, indeed, it is if you consider,
That the Crow should dare to swoop upon the Falcon.
Strange, again, it is if you consider,
That the Moghal should engage in contest with the Afghan.
Strange would it be, if you consider,
Were the Jackal to be full of meat, the Lion hungry.
Stranger yet is it, if you consider,
That against Khush-hal Khan Bahram should send his armies.

Virtue, piety, observance, Seek from drunken me not. Nay,
For to winebibbing predestined Was I on Creation's Day.

I, that moment when ablution In the Fount of Love I made,
At one blow the funeral service Over all things else did say.

Give me wine, that I may give thee Knowledge of Fate's mystery,
Of whose face I am enamoured, With whose scent I'm drunken aye.

O wine-worshipper, despair not Of the door of clemency!
For the mountain's loins are weaker. Than the emmet's in Love's way.

Save yon languishing narcissus, (Far therefrom the Evil Eye!),

The Festival day to-day is And I've for to-day forecast
To barter for wine and winecup The sum of the four weeks' fast.

'Tis many a day that severed From winecup and wine I am;
And sore is the shame 't hath wrought me Among the toper caste.

No more will I sit secluded, Though zealot and pietist
Of convent and cell and cloister The chain to my foot make fast.

Sage counsel the city preacher Me giveth; but this I know,
That counsel no more from any I'll hearken, as in the past.

Where's he who the ghost gave up in The dust of the tavern-door,

My heart of a gipsy-like charmer, A trickstress, is captive made,
A troth-breaking, mischief-making And murderous-fashioned jade.

A thousandfold wedes of abstention And patchcoats of piety
Be ransom for moonfaced younglings, In tunics torn arrayed!

Come, call for the cup and sprinkle With rose-water Adam's clay,
Of thanks that in beauty's ball-game The angels thou hast outplayed.

Lo! Weary and poor, to thy doorway I'm come: show somewhat of ruth;
For, saving the love of thee, nothing I bring in my hand displayed.

Lo it is dawn, so rise and let us part;
We're barely rooted here, unwelcome guests.
What hope is there for one neglected plant,
In bloom, in color so unlike the rest?
How could the new in heart blend with the chant
Of ancient hearts that beat in ancient breasts?
Lo, there the morning calls, beloved, hear!
Let's trace its steps as it shakes off the night;
We've suffered long enough the evening's claim
That it has ushered forth the morning's light.

We spent this life confined within a vale,
Along whose ribs cascades of worry flow,

He whom the trees accept,
He to whom the great clouds bow in passing,
He to whom the bluebirds bring the back-door gossip of heaven—
He cannot be agnostic.
Soon or late, he must say, “I love”:
Who loves, knows.