Fragments On The Poet And The Poetic Gift

I     There are beggars in Iran and Araby,     SAID was hungrier than all;     Hafiz said he was a fly     That came to every festival.     He came a pilgrim to the Mosque     On trail of camel and caravan,     Knew every temple and kiosk     Out from Mecca to Ispahan;     Northward he went to the snowy hills,     At court he sat in the grave Divan.     His music was the south-wind's sigh,     His lamp, the maiden's downcast eye,     And ever the spell of beauty came     And turned the drowsy world to flame.     By lake and stream and gleaming hall     And modest copse and the forest tall,     Where'er he went, the magic guide     Kept its place by the poet's side.     Said melted the days like cups of pearl,     Served high and low, the lord and the churl,     Loved harebells nodding on a rock,     A cabin hung with curling smoke,     Ring of axe or hum of wheel     Or gleam which use can paint on steel,     And huts and tents; nor loved he less     Stately lords in palaces,     Princely women hard to please,     Fenced by form and ceremony,     Decked by courtly rites and dress     And etiquette of gentilesse.     But when the mate of the snow and wind,     He left each civil scale behind:     Him wood-gods fed with honey wild     And of his memory beguiled.     He loved to watch and wake     When the wing of the south-wind whipt the lake     And the glassy surface in ripples brake     And fled in pretty frowns away     Like the flitting boreal lights,     Rippling roses in northern nights,     Or like the thrill of Aeolian strings     In which the sudden wind-god rings.     In caves and hollow trees he crept     And near the wolf and panther slept.     He came to the green ocean's brim     And saw the wheeling sea-birds skim,     Summer and winter, o'er the wave,     Like creatures of a skiey mould,     Impassible to heat or cold.     He stood before the tumbling main     With joy too tense for sober brain;     He shared the life of the element,     The tie of blood and home was rent:     As if in him the welkin walked,     The winds took flesh, the mountains talked,     And he the bard, a crystal soul     Sphered and concentric with the whole.     II     The Dervish whined to Said,     "Thou didst not tarry while I prayed.     Beware the fire that Eblis burned,"     But Saadi coldly thus returned,     "Once with manlike love and fear     I gave thee for an hour my ear,     I kept the sun and stars at bay,     And love, for words thy tongue could say.     I cannot sell my heaven again     For all that rattles in thy brain."     III     Said Saadi, "When I stood before     Hassan the camel-driver's door,     I scorned the fame of Timour brave;     Timour, to Hassan, was a slave.     In every glance of Hassan's eye     I read great years of victory,     And I, who cower mean and small     In the frequent interval     When wisdom not with me resides,     Worship Toil's wisdom that abides.     I shunned his eyes, that faithful man's,     I shunned the toiling Hassan's glance."     IV     The civil world will much forgive     To bards who from its maxims live,     But if, grown bold, the poet dare     Bend his practice to his prayer     And following his mighty heart     Shame the times and live apart,--     Vae solis! I found this,     That of goods I could not miss     If I fell within the line,     Once a member, all was mine,     Houses, banquets, gardens, fountains,     Fortune's delectable mountains;     But if I would walk alone,     Was neither cloak nor crumb my own.     And thus the high Muse treated me,     Directly never greeted me,     But when she spread her dearest spells,     Feigned to speak to some one else.     I was free to overhear,     Or I might at will forbear;     Yet mark me well, that idle word     Thus at random overheard     Was the symphony of spheres,     And proverb of a thousand years,     The light wherewith all planets shone,     The livery all events put on,     It fell in rain, it grew in grain,     It put on flesh in friendly form,     Frowned in my foe and growled in storm,     It spoke in Tullius Cicero,     In Milton and in Angelo:     I travelled and found it at Rome;     Eastward it filled all Heathendom     And it lay on my hearth when I came home.     V     Mask thy wisdom with delight,     Toy with the bow, yet hit the white,     As Jelaleddin old and gray;     He seemed to bask, to dream and play     Without remoter hope or fear     Than still to entertain his ear     And pass the burning summer-time     In the palm-grove with a rhyme;     Heedless that each cunning word     Tribes and ages overheard:     Those idle catches told the laws     Holding Nature to her cause.     God only knew how Saadi dined;     Roses he ate, and drank the wind;     He freelier breathed beside the pine,     In cities he was low and mean;     The mountain waters washed him clean     And by the sea-waves he was strong;     He heard their medicinal song,     Asked no physician but the wave,     No palace but his sea-beat cave.     Saadi held the Muse in awe,     She was his mistress and his law;     A twelvemonth he could silence hold,     Nor ran to speak till she him told;     He felt the flame, the fanning wings,     Nor offered words till they were things,     Glad when the solid mountain swims     In music and uplifting hymns.     Charmed from fagot and from steel,     Harvests grew upon his tongue,     Past and future must reveal     All their heart when Saadi sung;     Sun and moon must fall amain     Like sower's seeds into his brain,     There quickened to be born again.     The free winds told him what they knew,     Discoursed of fortune as they blew;     Omens and signs that filled the air     To him authentic witness bare;     The birds brought auguries on their wings,     And carolled undeceiving things     Him to beckon, him to warn;     Well might then the poet scorn     To learn of scribe or courier     Things writ in vaster character;     And on his mind at dawn of day     Soft shadows of the evening lay.     *             *             *     Pale genius roves alone,     No scout can track his way,     None credits him till he have shown     His diamonds to the day.     Not his the feaster's wine,     Nor land, nor gold, nor power,     By want and pain God screeneth him     Till his elected hour.     Go, speed the stars of Thought     On to their shining goals:--     The sower scatters broad his seed,     The wheat thou strew'st be souls.     I grieve that better souls than mine     Docile read my measured line:     High destined youths and holy maids     Hallow these my orchard shades;     Environ me and me baptize     With light that streams from gracious eyes.     I dare not be beloved and known,     I ungrateful, I alone.     Ever find me dim regards,     Love of ladies, love of bards,     Marked forbearance, compliments,     Tokens of benevolence.     What then, can I love myself?     Fame is profitless as pelf,     A good in Nature not allowed     They love me, as I love a cloud     Sailing falsely in the sphere,     Hated mist if it come near.     For thought, and not praise;     Thought is the wages     For which I sell days,     Will gladly sell ages     And willing grow old     Deaf, and dumb, and blind, and cold,     Melting matter into dreams,     Panoramas which I saw     And whatever glows or seems     Into substance, into Law.     For Fancy's gift     Can mountains lift;     The Muse can knit     What is past, what is done,     With the web that's just begun;     Making free with time and size,     Dwindles here, there magnifies,     Swells a rain-drop to a tun;     So to repeat     No word or feat     Crowds in a day the sum of ages,     And blushing Love outwits the sages.     Try the might the Muse affords     And the balm of thoughtful words;     Bring music to the desolate;     Hang roses on the stony fate.     But over all his crowning grace,     Wherefor thanks God his daily praise,     Is the purging of his eye     To see the people of the sky:     From blue mount and headland dim     Friendly hands stretch forth to him,     Him they beckon, him advise     Of heavenlier prosperities     And a more excelling grace     And a truer bosom-glow     Than the wine-fed feasters know.     They turn his heart from lovely maids,     And make the darlings of the earth     Swainish, coarse and nothing worth:     Teach him gladly to postpone     Pleasures to another stage     Beyond the scope of human age,     Freely as task at eve undone     Waits unblamed to-morrow's sun.     By thoughts I lead     Bards to say what nations need;     What imports, what irks and what behooves,     Framed afar as Fates and Loves.     And as the light divides the dark     Through with living swords,     So shall thou pierce the distant age     With adamantine words.     I framed his tongue to music,     I armed his hand with skill,     I moulded his face to beauty     And his heart the throne of Will.     For every God     Obeys the hymn, obeys the ode.     For art, for music over-thrilled,     The wine-cup shakes, the wine is spilled.     Hold of the Maker, not the Made;     Sit with the Cause, or grim or glad.     That book is good     Which puts me in a working mood.     Unless to Thought is added Will,     Apollo is an imbecile.     What parts, what gems, what colors shine,--     Ah, but I miss the grand design.     Like vaulters in a circus round     Who leap from horse to horse, but never touch the ground.     For Genius made his cabin wide,     And Love led Gods therein to bide.     The atom displaces all atoms beside,     And Genius unspheres all souls that abide.     To transmute crime to wisdom, so to stem     The vice of Japhet by the thought of Shem.     He could condense cerulean ether     Into the very best sole-leather.     Forbore the ant-hill, shunned to tread,     In mercy, on one little head.     I have no brothers and no peers,     And the dearest interferes:     When I would spend a lonely day,     Sun and moon are in my way.     The brook sings on, but sings in vain     Wanting the echo in my brain.     He planted where the deluge ploughed.     His hired hands were wind and cloud;     His eyes detect the Gods concealed     In the hummock of the field.     For what need I of book or priest,     Or sibyl from the mummied East,     When every star is Bethlehem star?     I count as many as there are     Cinquefoils or violets in the grass,     So many saints and saviors,     So many high behaviors     Salute the bard who is alive     And only sees what he doth give.     Coin the day-dawn into lines     In which its proper splendor shines;     Coin the moonlight into verse     Which all its marvel shall rehearse,     Chasing with words fast-flowing things; nor try     To plant thy shrivelled pedantry     On the shoulders of the sky.     Ah, not to me those dreams belong!     A better voice peals through my song.     The Muse's hill by Fear is guarded,     A bolder foot is still rewarded.     His instant thought a poet spoke,     And filled the age his fame;     An inch of ground the lightning strook     But lit the sky with flame.     If bright the sun, he tarries,     All day his song is heard;     And when he goes he carries     No more baggage than a bird.     The Asmodean feat is mine,     To spin my sand-heap into twine.     Slighted Minerva's learnd tongue,     But leaped with joy when on the wind     The shell of Clio rung.