Ode XLIV: The care-free sleeps, but I feel

The care-free sleeps, but I feel no sleep come nigh to mine eyes : Care is my fellow, at hand always to pillow my head.

It is not sickness, 'tis Care that thus has wasted my frame : Care fills my vision, and grips my fainting heart with its pain.

A heavy burthen it is, whereso I venture my steps, there rises ever in face a barrier not to be passed ;

No way lies open to me between 'Iraq and Murad — not even where the wide torrent stretches broadly its bed.

Yea, surely well do I know, and need no lesson from thee, the path I travel was traced for those who bear forth the dead.

Death and Destruction have climbed atop of cliffs where I wend, and watch my shape as I totter [through the narrowing pass] ;

No wealth of mine, whether old or newly got, shall redeem the pledge they hold of me — nought but life itself shall avail.

What can I hope, when Muharriq's house have gone to decay and left their palaces void ? what better, after Iyad ? —

The folk who dwelt in Khawarnaq and Bariq and as-Sadir, and the high-pinnacled castle that stood beside Sindad—

A land which Ka'b son of Mamah chose and Abu Du'ad to be the place where their fathers' stock should prosper and grow.

Now sweep the winds over all their dwellings : empty they lie, as though their lords had been set a time and no more to be.

Yea, once they lived there a life most ample in wealth and delight beneath the shade of a kingdom stable, not to be moved.

They settled after in Anqirah, and there by their stead flowed down Euphrates, new come to plain from mountain and hill.

Lo ! how luxurious living and all the ways of delight decline one day to decay, and pass therefrom into nought !

And if thou seekest examples, look at Gharf and his house : in them shalt thou, if it list thee, many find to thy hand.

What hope for us after Zaid whose kin were lost for a maid, scattered and banished and slain, for all their goodly array ?

They chose the broad open land because of strength that they had, and best of helpers were they beyond all bountiful hands.

If now thou seest me a wreck, worn out and minished of sight, and all my limbs without strength to bear my body along,

And I am deaf to the calls of love and lightness of youth, and follow wisdom in meekness, my steps easy to guide—

Time was I went every night, hair combed, to sellers of wine, and squandered lightly my wealth, compliant, easy of mood.

Yea, once I played, and enjoyed the sweetest flavour of youth, my wine the first of the grape, mingled with purest of rain—

Wine bought from one with a twang in his speech, and rings in his ears, a belt girt round him : he brought it forth for good silver coin.

A boy deals it to our guests, girt up, two pearls in his ears, his fingers ruddy, as though stained deep with mulberry juice,

And women white like the moon or statues stately to see, that softly carry around great cups filled full with the wine—

White women, dainty, that shoot the hearts of men [with their eyes], fair as a nest full of ostrich eggs betwixt rock and sand.

Kind words they speak, and their limbs are soft and smooth to the touch, their faces bright, and their hearts to lovers gentle and mild.

Low speech they murmur, in tones that bear no secrets abroad : they gain their ends without toil, and need no shouting to win.

Yea, oft at dawn would I ride afar in dangerous meads-dark grasses clothing the runnels, joyful sight for the herds ;

Thereon the clouds of the night had loosed their burthens, and clumps of safra, juicy and fresh, and zullad, thickened the grass,

In Jaww and al-Amarat, around Mughamir's sides, and Darij, and in Qasimah, choicest land for the chase :

My mount a steed, ever prompt to yield the whole of his speed to ride the wildings to bay, a racer not to be beat ;

The lonely bull that exults in fleetness he courses down by running skilful in turns, now swift, now slackened as meet.

And oft have I followed after friends departing, my beast a stout she-camel, well-knit, that yields nor calves nor milk,

Strong as a wild-ass : the Spring has filled the chinks of her frame — smooth now the surface, whereon no tick can find room to lodge.

[All these — it boots not to tell of things so utterly gone : Time's work is nought but to turn all lovely things to decay I]