Classic Poem

In the flowery land of Persia
Long ago, as poets tell,
Where three rivers met together
Did a happy people dwell.
Never did these happy people
Suffer sickness, plague, or dearth,
Living in a golden climate
In the fairest place on earth,
Living thus thro' endless summers
And half-summers hardly colder,
Growing, tho' they hardly guessed it,
Very gradually older.

I can very well imagine
These old Persian lords and ladies
Sitting in their pleasant gardens,
Dreaming, dozing, where the shade is;
Almond trees a mass of blossom,
Roses, roses, red as wine,
With the helmets of the tulips
Flaming in a martial line,
While beside a marble basin,
With a fountain gushing forth,
Stands a red-legged crane, alighted
From the deserts of the North.

So they lived these ancient people,
With the happy harmless faces,
Dreaming till the purple twilight
In their flowery garden-places,
Finding every year the sunshine
And the wind a little colder,
Growing, tho' they hardly guessed it,
Very gradually older,
Till at last they grew so frail
That to their gardens they were carried,
Very feeble and exhausted,
Weak as babes--But still they tarried,

Lying till the purple twilight
Wrapped in wool but hardly warm,
Wearing shawls of costliest texture
Lest the wind might do them harm,
Feeling very faint sensations
Of delight in each old breast,
Twittering with tiny voices
Like young swallows in a nest.
Then the young men spoke together
As they feasted in the taverns,
"It is time to take our Fathers,
We must bear them to the Caverns."

In a mountain were the Caverns,
Fourteen leagues across the sand,
Fourteen leagues across the desert
In a naked golden land.
Black and bold and bare the mountain
Modelled into many shapes,
Cones and pyramids and pillars,
Beetling cliffs and jutting capes.
And within it were the Caverns
Tunnelled into every part,
Some by ancient Persian devils,
Others by a modern art.

Where the terraced lawns lay dreaming,
Underneath a cedar-tree
Dozed an ancient, ancient person
Tiny as a child of three.
Every day a gobbling negro
To his place the old man carried;
Very feeble and exhausted
Did he seem--but still he tarried.
Then Hasan, the young lord, murmured,
As he feasted in the taverns,
"It is time to take my Father,
I must bear him to the Caverns."

So he took his long-maned pony,
Her who wore the silver shoes,
Galloped thro' the crowded highways
Like one with no time to lose.
Purpose in his warning outcry
(Was he not the next of kin?)
Till he reached his palace gateway,
Flung the rein and fled within,
Chose with care a wicker basket
Very strong and deep and wide,
Laying shawls of costliest texture
And an eider quilt inside.

Underneath the spreading cedar,
In an arbour newly built,
Found Hasan his ancient person,
Put him underneath the quilt,
Mounted then his long-maned pony
With the basket on his arm,
Carrying it very firmly
Lest his father might take harm.
Galloped thro' the crowded highway,
Passing by the Street of Taverns,
Fourteen leagues across the desert
Till he came unto the Caverns.

Fastened then his long-maned pony
To a ring-post at the mouth
(Scores and scores of ring-posts were there
Where the Caverns faced the South)
Plunged within the long wide gallery
Tunnelled 'neath the rocky roof,
With a lantern light exploring
All the dark which lay aloof,
Treading swiftly, treading surely,
With the basket on his arm,
Carrying it very firmly
Lest his father might take harm.

Till he came a byway unto
Fashioned from another way,
And a niche seen at the summit
Of a guiding lantern ray.
Lifted then the basket gently,
Poised, and placed it in the niche,
Saying "Farewell, ancient father,
'Tis the custom" ... after which
Bowed his head before his father
Thrice, and swiftly turned to go,
Knowing that it was the custom,
Thinking it was better so.

Suddenly he heard a droning,
Like a gnat's small plaintive lay,
Somewhere in the dark behind him
Where the "Ancient Persons" lay,
Heard a little ghostly twitter
Like a voice addressing him,
Turned and saw his father staring
Just above the basket rim,
Staring at Hasan, his strong son,
With his filmy red-rimmed eyes,
"What's ado, Oh! ancient father?"
Cried Hasan in great surprise.

"Son," replied the ancient person,
"Tho' a miser is disgraced,
Even in a wealthy household
Monstrous is the crime of waste,
Strong and shapely is the basket
Much hath held and more will take;
If you leave it in the Caverns
Won't it be a great mistake?
So, for once, let custom perish....
Son, 'tis I, your father, ask it,
Lift me out and lay me gently
On the rock and ... take our basket."

Oh! the young lord's wild amazement
As he heard that tiny hum;
Turned the lantern light behind him
Stricken with amazement dumb.
Oh! the young lord's vast confusion
As its meaning gave a flicker--
Oh! the mild iconoclastic
Staring o'er the edge of wicker.
Staring--staring--simply staring
With his filmy red-rimmed eyes--
Down Hasan his father lifted
Silent still in strange surmise.

Never faster had prince ridden
From the place of Persian devils,
Where its huge and inky bastions
Frowned across the golden levels;
Nor before had faster travelled
Scion of the equine brood
Than that day, that day of portent,
Galloped she the silver-shoed.
Saw Hasan the meaning clearly
And a prophet (so they said)
After sunset thro' the taverns
Loud proclaimed the custom dead.

This a legend of old Persia
Of an earlier happier day
Of a happy happy people--
How they ended none can say.