PART IV—AT REST
The moon is waning and will soon be set.
With folded tents, the starry caravan
Melts into light. Above each lowly khan,
The palms stand out in lordly silhouette
Against the brighter dawn: but even yet,
Some souls are sleeping; since the world began
With music of the morning stars hath man
Been eating lotus-leaves and doth forget.
A bird trills out his carol to the skies,
A song of life, for this is what he saith:
I sing once more the phenix-dirge, of death
Love-conquered. It is death alone that dies.
Now over plain and city, sea and sod,
The new-earth bells chime out the dream of God.
Four leagues from Nazareth. Hush! here he lies,
Carmel his cenotaph, his home the skies.
Who, in his name would dare to speak of death?
Abdul Baha, the blessèd, never dies.
His spirit rests not where his feet once trod;
But every heart shall feel the touch of God.
His arms of love are folded round the world,
But most where lowly, loving toilers plod.
When we on others gifts of joy bestow,
From life to life his light of love shall glow:
His bounties rain upon us from the skies,
His fragrances through all our spirits flow.
Let prejudice and all divisive thought
Ebb to mortality, till life be caught
In reefs of Love's imperishable flame;
Then shall God's temple rise, in beauty wrought.
So long, a prisoner on that sacred shore,
The fetters of humanity he wore,
That kind release came like a breath of spring,
Him to his ancient freedom to restore.
Great peace now folds him in her snowy wings,
And hope her bright celestial raiment brings;
While o'er the splendour of his highest joys,
Pure Love the rose-hues of her vesture flings.
Behold the land! There shall be no more sea!
Now war shall end, another age shall be
Where justice, love and higher faith shall give
New laws, new life, and new humanity.
No more we see him. Soft the breezes blow;
The seas upon their beaches whisper low;
The birds in yonder sycamores are dumb;
The lambs upon the hillsides seem to know.
The petals from my Persian rose have gone;
They fell before the spirit winds of dawn,
And now their fragrances are everywhere,
And nevermore from earth shall be withdrawn.
“Now I shall be with you alway,” he said,
And then was seen no more. He is not dead;
The presence of the Beauty of our God
Is often ours unseen. 'Tis felt instead.
Hereto, whene'er we mused on him, we hied
In thought to Akka, o'er the billows wide;
Henceforth, we'll think of him not far away;
He speaks to us, close-standing at our side.
Think you he will not speak? Be not afraid;
Be not by timid doubt or fear betrayed.
Ask him the question in your heart to-night;
Should he not answer, then you have not prayed.
Farewell to Haifa! Yonder crescent moon
Tells of a land where it is always June.
Our white-sailed ships, far-speeding, bear away
Into a life where is no afternoon.
We have not lost our gifted prophet sage;
He has become the spirit of the age;
A sea of Love is he, of power and thought
O'er which we reach our promised heritage.
It is not well that we should grieve or weep.
The restless billows swell and heave and heap,
Then rise in vapour to the sun to fall
In tears of rain where parchèd meadows sleep.
Now all our fetters—anchors to the past,
With forward urging, far away we cast;
We burn our ships and climb along the stars,
Into the dawning future calm and vast.
The moon is waning and will soon be set.
With folded tents, the starry caravan
Melts into light. Above each lowly khan,
The palms stand out in lordly silhouette
Against the brighter dawn: but even yet,
Some souls are sleeping; since the world began
With music of the morning stars hath man
Been eating lotus-leaves and doth forget.
A bird trills out his carol to the skies,
A song of life, for this is what he saith:
I sing once more the phenix-dirge, of death
Love-conquered. It is death alone that dies.
Now over plain and city, sea and sod,
The new-earth bells chime out the dream of God.
Four leagues from Nazareth. Hush! here he lies,
Carmel his cenotaph, his home the skies.
Who, in his name would dare to speak of death?
Abdul Baha, the blessèd, never dies.
His spirit rests not where his feet once trod;
But every heart shall feel the touch of God.
His arms of love are folded round the world,
But most where lowly, loving toilers plod.
When we on others gifts of joy bestow,
From life to life his light of love shall glow:
His bounties rain upon us from the skies,
His fragrances through all our spirits flow.
Let prejudice and all divisive thought
Ebb to mortality, till life be caught
In reefs of Love's imperishable flame;
Then shall God's temple rise, in beauty wrought.
So long, a prisoner on that sacred shore,
The fetters of humanity he wore,
That kind release came like a breath of spring,
Him to his ancient freedom to restore.
Great peace now folds him in her snowy wings,
And hope her bright celestial raiment brings;
While o'er the splendour of his highest joys,
Pure Love the rose-hues of her vesture flings.
Behold the land! There shall be no more sea!
Now war shall end, another age shall be
Where justice, love and higher faith shall give
New laws, new life, and new humanity.
No more we see him. Soft the breezes blow;
The seas upon their beaches whisper low;
The birds in yonder sycamores are dumb;
The lambs upon the hillsides seem to know.
The petals from my Persian rose have gone;
They fell before the spirit winds of dawn,
And now their fragrances are everywhere,
And nevermore from earth shall be withdrawn.
“Now I shall be with you alway,” he said,
And then was seen no more. He is not dead;
The presence of the Beauty of our God
Is often ours unseen. 'Tis felt instead.
Hereto, whene'er we mused on him, we hied
In thought to Akka, o'er the billows wide;
Henceforth, we'll think of him not far away;
He speaks to us, close-standing at our side.
Think you he will not speak? Be not afraid;
Be not by timid doubt or fear betrayed.
Ask him the question in your heart to-night;
Should he not answer, then you have not prayed.
Farewell to Haifa! Yonder crescent moon
Tells of a land where it is always June.
Our white-sailed ships, far-speeding, bear away
Into a life where is no afternoon.
We have not lost our gifted prophet sage;
He has become the spirit of the age;
A sea of Love is he, of power and thought
O'er which we reach our promised heritage.
It is not well that we should grieve or weep.
The restless billows swell and heave and heap,
Then rise in vapour to the sun to fall
In tears of rain where parchèd meadows sleep.
Now all our fetters—anchors to the past,
With forward urging, far away we cast;
We burn our ships and climb along the stars,
Into the dawning future calm and vast.