To His Royal Highness Emir Feisal in whom are centred the hopes and aspirations of the Syrian people for a united Syria this book is dedicated...

In thy fountained peristyles of Reason Glows the light and flame of desert noons; And in the cloister of thy pensive Fancy Wisdom burns the spikenard of her moons. Closed by Fate the portals of the dw...

When Christendom was groping amid the superstitions of the Dark Ages, and the Norsemen were ravaging the western part of Europe, and the princes of Islam were cutting each other’s throats in the name ...

The sable wings of Night pursuing day Across the opalescent hills, display The wondrous star-gems which the fiery suns Are scattering upon their fiery way....

O my Companion, Night is passing fair, Fairer than aught the dawn and sundown wear; And fairer, too, than all the gilded days Of blond Illusion and its golden snare....

Hark, in the minarets muazzens call The evening hour that in the interval Of darkness Ahmad might remembered be⁠— Remembered of the Darkness be they all....

And hear the others who with cymbals try To stay the feet of every passer-by: The market-men along the darkling lane Are crying up their wares.⁠—Oh! let them cry....

Mohammed or Messiah! Hear thou me, The truth entire nor here nor there can be; How should our God who made the sun and moon Give all his light to One, I cannot see....

Come, let us with the naked Night now rest And read in Allah’s Book the sonnet best: The Pleiads⁠—ah, the Moon from them departs⁠— She draws her veil and hastens toward the west....

The Pleiads follow; and our Ethiop Queen, Emerging from behind her starry screen, Will steep her tresses in the saffron dye Of dawn, and vanish in the morning sheen....

The secret of the day and night is in The constellations, which forever spin Around each other in the comet-dust;⁠— The comet-dust and humankind are kin....

But whether of dust or fire or foam, the glaive Of Allah cleaves the planet and the wave Of this mysterious Heaven-Sea of life, And lo! we have the Cradle of the Grave....

The Grave and Cradle, the untiring twain, Who in the markets of this narrow lane Bordered of darkness, ever give and take In equal measure⁠—what’s the loss or gain?...

Ay, like the circles which the sun doth spin Of gossamer, we end as we begin; Our feet are on the heads of those that pass, But ever their Graves around our Cradles grin....

And what avails it then that Man be born To joy or sorrow?⁠—why rejoice or mourn? The doling doves are calling to the rose; The dying rose is bleeding o’er the thorn....

And he the Messenger, who takes away The faded garments, purple, white, and gray Of all our dreams unto the Dyer, will Bring back new robes to-morrow⁠—so they say....

But now the funeral is passing by, And in its trail, beneath this moaning sky, The howdaj comes⁠—both vanish into night; To me are one, the sob, the joyous cry....

With tombs and ruined temples groans the land In which our forbears in the drifting sand Arise as dunes upon the track of Time To mark the cycles of the moving hand...

Of Fate. Alas! and we shall follow soon Into the night eternal or the noon; The wayward daughters of the spheres return Unto the bosom of their sun or moon....

And from the last days of Thamud and ʻAd Up to the first of Hashem’s fearless lad, Who smashed the idols of his mighty tribe, What idols and what heroes Death has had!...

Tread lightly, for the mighty that have been Might now be breathing in the dust unseen; Lightly, the violets beneath thy feet Spring from the mole of some Arabian queen....

Many a grave embraces friend and foe Behind the curtain of this sorry show Of love and hate inscrutable; alas! The Fates will always reap the while they sow....

The silken fibre of the fell Zaqqum, As warp and woof, is woven on the loom Of life into a tapestry of dreams To decorate the chariot-seat of Doom....

And still we weave, and still we are content In slaving for the sovereigns who have spent The savings of the toiling of the mind Upon the glory of Dismemberment....

Nor king nor slave the hungry Days will spare; Between their fangèd Hours alike we fare: Anon they bound upon us while we play Unheeding at the threshold of their Lair....

Then Jannat or Jahannam? From the height Of reason I can see nor fire nor light That feeds not on the darknesses; we pass From world to world, like shadows through the night....

Or sleep⁠—and shall it be eternal sleep Somewhither in the bosom of the deep Infinities of cosmic dust, or here Where gracile cypresses the vigil keep!...

Upon the threshing-floor of life I burn Beside the Winnower a word to learn; And only this: Man’s of the soil and sun, And to the soil and sun he shall return....

And like a spider’s house or sparrow’s nest, The Sultan’s palace, though upon the crest Of glory’s mountain, soon or late must go: Ay, all abodes to ruin are addrest....

So, too, the creeds of Man: the one prevails Until the other comes; and this one fails When that one triumphs; ay, the lonesome world Will always want the latest fairy-tales....

Seek not the Tavern of Belief, my friend, Until the Sakis there their morals mend; A lie imbibed a thousand lies will breed, And thou’lt become a Saki in the end....

By fearing whom I trust I find my way To truth; by trusting wholly I betray The trust of wisdom; better far is doubt Which brings the false into the light of day....

Or wilt thou commerce have with those who make Rugs of the rainbow, rainbows of the snake, Snakes of a staff, and other wondrous things?⁠— The burning thirst a mirage can not slake....

Religion is a maiden veiled in prayer, Whose bridal gifts and dowry those who care Can buy in Mutakallim’s shop of words But I for such, a dirham can not spare....

Why linger here, why turn another page? Oh! seal with doubt the whole book of the age; Doubt every one, even him, the seeming slave Of righteousness, and doubt the canting sage....

Some day the weeping daughters of Hadil Will say unto the bulbuls: “Let’s appeal To Allah in behalf of Brother Man Who’s at the mercy now of Ababil.”...

Of Ababil! I would the tale were true⁠— Would all the birds were such winged furies too; The scourging and the purging were a boon For me, O my dear Brothers, and for you....

Methinks Allah divides me to complete His problem, which with Xs is replete; For I am free and I am too in chains Groping along the labyrinthine street....

And round the Well how oft my Soul doth grope Athirst; but lo! my Bucket hath no Rope: I cry for water, and the deep, dark Well Echoes my wailing cry, but not my hope....

Ah, many have I seen of those who fell While drawing, with a swagger, from the Well; They came with Rope and Bucket, and they went Empty of hand another tale to tell....

The I in me standing upon the brink Would leap into the Well to get a drink; But how to rise once in the depth, I cry, And cowardly behind my logic slink....

And she: “How long must I the burden bear? How long this tattered garment must I wear?” And I: “Why wear it? Leave it here, and go Away without it⁠—little do I care.”...

But once when we were quarreling, the door Was opened by a Visitor who bore Both Rope and Pail; he offered them and said: “Drink, if you will, but once, and nevermore.”...

One draught, more bitter than the Zaqqum tree, Brought us unto the land of mystery Where rising Sand and Dust and Flame conceal The door of every Caravanseri....

We reach a door and there the legend find. “To all the Pilgrims of the Human Mind: Knock and pass on!” We knock and knock and knock; But no one answers save the moaning wind....

How like a door the knowledge we attain, Which door is on the bourne of the Inane; It opens and our nothingness is closed⁠— It closes and in darkness we remain....

Hither we come unknowing, hence we go; Unknowing we are messaged to and fro; And yet we think we know all things of earth And sky⁠—the suns and stars we think we know....

Apply thy wit, O Brother, here and there Upon this and upon that; but beware Lest in the end⁠—ah, better at the start Go to the Tinker for a slight repair....

And why so much ado, and wherefore lay The burden of the years upon the day Of thy vain dreams? Who polishes his sword Morning and eve will polish it away....

I heard it whispered in the cryptic streets Where every sage the same dumb shadow meets: “We are but words fallen from the lips of Time Which God, that we might understand, repeats.”...

Another said: “The creeping worm hath shown, In her discourse on human flesh and bone, That Man was once the bed on which she slept⁠— The walking dust was once a thing of stone.”...

And still another: “We are coins which fade In circulation, coins which Allah made To cheat Iblis: the good and bad alike Are spent by Fate upon a passing shade.”...

And in the pottery the potter cried, As on his work shone all the master’s pride⁠— “How is it, Rabbi, I, thy slave, can make Such vessels as nobody dare deride?”...

The Earth then spake: “My children silent be; Same are to God the camel and the flea: He makes a mess of me to nourish you, Then makes a mess of you to nourish me.”...

Now, I believe the Potter will essay Once more the Wheel, and from a better clay Will make a better Vessel, and perchance A masterpiece which will endure for aye....

With better skill he even will remould The scattered potsherds of the New and Old; Then you and I will not disdain to buy, Though in the mart of Iblis they be sold....

Sooth I have told the masters of the mart Of rusty creeds and Babylonian art Of magic. Now the truth about myself⁠— Here is the secret of my wincing heart....

I muse, but in my musings I recall The days of my iniquity; we’re all⁠— An arrow shot across the wilderness, Somewhither, in the wilderness must fall....

I laugh, but in my laughter-cup I pour The tears of scorn and melancholy sore; I who am shattered by the hand of Doubt, Like glass to be remoulded nevermore....

I wheedle, too, even like my slave Zeidun, Who robs at dawn his brother, and at noon Prostrates himself in prayer⁠—ah, let us pray That Night might blot us and our sins, and soon....

But in the fatal coils, without intent, We sin; wherefore a future punishment? They say the metal dead a deadly steel Becomes with Allah’s knowledge and consent....

And even the repentant sinner’s tear Falling into Jahannam’s very ear, Goes to its heart, extinguishes its fire For ever and forever⁠—so I hear....

Between the white and purple Words of Time In motley garb with Destiny I rhyme: The colored glasses to the water give The colors of a symbolry sublime....

How oft, when young, my brothers I would shun If their religious feelings were not spun Of my own cobweb, which I find was but A spider’s revelation of the sun....

Now, mosques and churches⁠—even a Kaaba Stone, Korans and Bibles⁠—even a martyr’s bone⁠— All these and more my heart can tolerate, For my religion ’s love, and love alone....

To humankind, O Brother, consecrate Thy heart, and shun the hundred Sects that prate About the things they little know about⁠— Let all receive thy pity, none thy hate....

The tavern and the temple also shun, For sheikh and libertine in sooth are one; And when the pious knave begins to pule, The knave in purple breaks his vow anon....

“The wine’s forbidden,” say these honest folk, But for themselves the law they will revoke; The snivelling sheikh says he’s without a garb, When in the tap-house he had pawned his cloak,...

Or in the house of lust. The priestly name And priestly turban once were those of Shame⁠— And Shame is preaching in the pulpit now⁠— If pulpits tumble down, I’m not to blame....

For after she declaims upon the vows Of Faith, she pusillanimously bows Before the Sultan’s wine-empurpled throne, While he and all his courtesans carouse....

Carouse, ye sovereign lords! The wheel will roll Forever to confound and to console: Who sips today the golden cup will drink Mayhap to-morrow in a wooden bowl⁠—...

And silent drink. The tumult of our mirth Is worse than our mad welcoming of birth:⁠— The thunder hath a grandeur, but the rains, Without the thunder, quench the thirst of Earth....

The Prophets, too, among us come to teach, Are one with those who from the pulpit preach; They pray, and slay, and pass away, and yet Our ills are as the pebbles on the beach....

And though around the temple they should run For seventy times and seven, and in the sun Of mad devotion drool, their prayers are still Like their desires of feasting-fancies spun....

Oh! let them in the marshes grope, or ride Their jaded Myths along the mountain-side; Come up with me, O Brother, to the heights Where Reason is the prophet and the guide....

“What is thy faith and creed,” they ask of me, “And who art thou? Unseal thy pedigree.”⁠— I am the child of Time, my tribe, mankind, And now this world’s my caravanseri....

Swathe thee in wool, my Sufi friend, and go Thy way; in cotton I the wiser grow; But we ourselves are shreds of earth, and soon The Tailor of the Universe will sew....

Ay! suddenly the mystic Hand will seal The saint’s devotion and the sinner’s weal; They worship Saturn, but I worship One Before whom Saturn and the Heavens kneel....

Among the crumbling ruins of the creeds The Scout upon his camel played his reeds And called out to his people⁠—“Let us hence! The pasture here is full of noxious weeds.”...

Among us falsehood is proclaimed aloud, But truth is whispered to the phantom bowed Of conscience; ay! and Wrong is ever crowned, While Right and Reason are denied a shroud....

And why in this dark Kingdom tribute pay? With clamant multitudes why stop to pray? Oh! hear the inner Voice:⁠—“If thou’lt be right, Do what they deem is wrong, and go thy way.”...

Thy way unto the Sun the spaces through Where king Orion’s black-eyed houris slew The Mother of Night to guide the Wings that bear The flame divine hid in a drop of dew....

Hear ye who in the dust of ages creep, And in the halls of wicked masters sleep:⁠— Arise! and out of this wan weariness Where Allah’s laughter makes the Devil weep....

Arise! for lo! the Laughter and the Weeping Reveal the Weapon which the Master’s keeping Above your heads; Oh! take it up and strike! The lion of tyranny is only sleeping....

Evil and Virtue? Shadows on the street Of Fate and Vanity⁠—but shadows meet When in the gloaming they are hast’ning forth To drink with Night annihilation sweet....

And thus the Sun will write and will efface The mystic symbols which the sages trace In vain, for all the worlds of God are stored In his enduring vessels Time and Space....

For all my learning ’s but a veil, I guess, Veiling the phantom of my nothingness; Howbeit, there are those who think me wise, And those who think me⁠—even these I bless....

And all my years, as vapid as my lay, Are bitter morsels of a mystic day⁠— The day of Fate, who carries in his lap December snows and snow-white flowers of May....

Allah, my sleep is woven through, it seems, With burning threads of night and golden beams; But when my dreams are evil they come true; When they are not, they are, alas! but dreams....

The subtle ways of Destiny I know; In me she plays her game of “Give and Go.” Misfortune I receive in cash, but joy, In drafts on Heaven or on the winds that blow....

I give and go, grim Destiny⁠—I play Upon this checker-board of Night and Day The dark game with thee, but the day will come When one will turn the Board the other way....

If my house-swallow, laboring with zest, Felt like myself the burden of unrest, Unlightened by inscrutable designs, She would not build her young that cozy nest....

Thy life with guiltless life-blood do not stain⁠— Hunt not the children of the woods; in vain Thou’lt try one day to wash thy bloody hand: Nor hunter here nor hunted long remain....

Oh! cast my dust away from thee, and doff Thy cloak of sycophancy and like stuff: I’m but a shadow on the sandy waste⁠— Enough of thy duplicity, enough!...

Behold! the Veil that hid thy soul is torn And all thy secrets on the winds are borne: The hand of Sin has written on thy face “Awake, for these untimely furrows warn!”...

A prince of souls, ’tis sung in ancient lay, One morning sought a vesture of the clay; He came into the Pottery, the fool⁠— The lucky fool was warned to stay away....

But I was not. Oh! that the Fates decree That I now cast aside this clay of me; My soul and body wedded for a while Are sick and would that separation be....

“Thou shalt not kill!”⁠—Thy words, O God, we heed, Though thy two Soul-devouring Angels feed Thy Promise of another life on this⁠— To have spared us both, it were a boon indeed....

Oh! that some one would but return to tell If old Nubakht is burning now in hell, Or if the workers for the Prophet’s prize Are laughing at his Paradisal sell....

Once I have tried to string a few Pearl-seeds Upon my Rosary of wooden beads; But I have searched, and I have searched in vain For pearls in all the caverns of the creeds...

And in the palaces of wealth I found Some beads of wisdom scattered on the ground, Around the throne of Power, beneath the feet Of fair-faced slaves with flowers of folly crowned....

Thy wealth can shed no tears around thy bier, Nor can it wash thy hands of shame and fear; Ere thou departest with it freely part⁠— Let others plead for thee and God will hear....

For me thy silks and feathers have no charm The pillow I like best is my right arm; The comforts of this passing show I spurn, For Poverty can do the soul no harm....

The guiding hand of Allah I can see Upon my staff: of what use then is he Who’d be the blind man’s guide? Thou silent oak, No son of Eve shall walk with me and thee....

My life’s the road on which I blindly speed: My goal’s the grave on which I plant a reed To shape my Hope, but soon the Hand unseen Will strike, and lo! I’m but a sapless weed....

O Rabbi, curse us not if we have been Nursed in the shadow of the Gate of Sin Built by thy hand⁠—yea, ev’n thine angels blink When we are coming out and going in....

And like the dead of Ind I do not fear To go to thee in flames; the most austere Angel of fire a softer tooth and tongue Hath he than dreadful Munkar and Nakir....

Now, at this end of Adam’s line I stand Holding my father’s life-curse in my hand, Doing no one the wrong that he did me:⁠— Ah, would that he were barren as the sand!...

Ay, thus thy children, though they sovereigns be, When truth upon them dawns, will turn on thee, Who cast them into life’s dark labyrinth Where even old Azrael can not see....

And in the labyrinth both son and sire Awhile will fan and fuel hatred’s fire; Sparks of the log of evil are all men Allwhere⁠—extinguished be the race entire!...

If miracles were wrought in ancient years, Why not today, O Heaven-cradled seers? The highway’s strewn with dead, the lepers weep, If ye but knew⁠—if ye but saw their tears!...

Fan thou a lisping fire and it will leap In flames, but dost thou fan an ashy heap? They would respond, indeed, whom thou dost call, Were they not dead, alas! or dead asleep....

The way of vice is open as the sky, The way of virtue’s like the needle’s eye; But whether here or there, the eager Soul Has only two Companions⁠—Whence and Why....

Whence come, O firmament, thy myriad lights? Whence comes thy sap, O vineyard of the heights? Whence comes the perfume of the rose, and whence The spirit-larva which the body blights?...

Whence does the nettle get its bitter sting? Whence do the honey bees their honey bring? Whence our Companions, too⁠—our Whence and Why? O Soul, I do not know a single thing!...

How many like us in the ages past Have blindly soared, though like a pebble cast, Seeking the veil of mystery to tear, But fell accurst beneath the burning blast?...

Why try to con the book of earth and sky, Why seek the truth which neither you nor I Can grasp? But Death methinks the secret keeps, And will impart it to us by and by....

The Sultan, too, relinquishing his throne Must wayfare through the darkening dust alone Where neither crown nor kingdom be, and he, Part of the Secret, here and there is blown....

To clay the mighty Sultan must return And, chancing, help a praying slave to burn His midnight oil before the face of Him, Who of the Sultan makes an incense urn....

Turned to a cup, who once the sword of state Held o’er the head of slave and potentate, Is now held in the tippler’s trembling hand, Or smashed upon the tavern-floor of Fate....

For this I say, Be watchful of the Cage Of chance; it opes alike to fool and sage; Spy on the moment, for to-morrow’ll be, Like yesterday, an obliterated page....

Yea, kiss the rosy cheeks of new-born Day, And hail eternity in every ray Forming a halo round its infant head, Illumining thy labyrinthine way....

But I, the thrice-imprisoned, try to troll Strains of the song of night, which fill with dole My blindness, my confinement, and my flesh⁠— The sordid habitation of my soul....

Howbeit, my inner vision heir shall be To the increasing flames of mystery Which may illumine yet my prisons all, And crown the ever living hope of me....

In one of his poems he speaks of three prisons, his body being the third. Here is Professor Nicholson’s translation: Methink I am thrice-imprisoned⁠—ask not me Of news that need no telling⁠— By loss o...