The Book of the Singer

Why tarriest, Singer? Take thy lute! ’Tis done!
With royal song call back again the royal one.

Be great thoughts, too, our guests with wine and rhyme,
And mention of old friends exiled by time.

Bring to our jaded circle joy of June,
Let Kul and Ghasel blossom to thy tune.

Grief bowed unto the earth, beggared was I,
Once more on wings of song, oh let me fly!

Through richest measured magic, Singer, go,
Grief’s curtain lift! The face of Beauty show!

So well let inspiration wing thy flight,
That Anahid dances a-down the night,

The maiden harpist, to whose witching song
Old friends unto The Banquet backward throng,

Who lifts enwrapt to God the Sufi up
As surely as from hand to mouth the cup.

Give tones so vibrant, rich so roundly sweet,
The tangling dust of time falls from the feet.

Deliverance bring from cares of sordid earth,
Safe sheltered in my heart bring Peace to birth.

Come, Singer, come! Befriend me as of yore!
In case the lute fails, let the loud drums roar.

It is best when in the blood wine works its harm,
To drown it with the deafening drum’s alarm.

Why tarriest, Singer? Red rose time is here,
When nightingales sing sweetest of the year

Embowered within the green. Shall I not know
The joy-song of my blood when lutes breathe low?

Come, Singer, through the ear inspire the soul,
With fresh songs ever let fresh music roll.

Shatter my heart, My Singer, with thy song!
Rebuild it greater, cleared of grief and wrong.

Oh! joy if thou shouldst show such grace to me,
Again within my heart youth’s fire set free,--

Youth’s fire!--swift to consume Grey-Grief and Care,
And wrinkled Sorrow’s household drive from there.

Why tarriest, Singer? On thy strings strike loud.
Come, banish from my breast this beggar crowd!

A beggar sooner hence myself would go
When Death calls, than a purple robe to show.

Sweet Singer, swifter strike a-down the strings--
Swifter, I say! A truce to sorrowings!

Or liefer wouldst thou sing an Irak song
While blinding tears the swollen eyelids throng?

Come, Singer, since my soul confides in thee,
Upon thy truth-pledged word this do for me:

Be shabby Grief’s sad Camps thy glorious goal;
With song, pray scatter them, with twirled drums roll!

Spacious with love my heart now shelters thine;
Inspire the flute with friendship’s breath divine.

Drown deep thy woe in wine! Suffice that not,
Breathe in the flute. By breath even life is bought.

Why tarriest, Singer? Come!--fresh songs, I say!
Thy cup is empty? Fill it then straightway,

That we together, new born unto joy,
May happy be a space sans Care’s alloy.

And with the others let my own songs meet,
Tripping beside thy lute they will seem more sweet.

Let music make my soul her home to-night;
Lead on the dance! The cowl I’ll fling from sight!

Upward, inspired, from thought to thought I’ll soar,
What time wine’s guarding the tongue’s Tavern Door.

Grief grasps my heart! The two-stringed lute let ring!
Nay! Nay!--the three-stringed--to The One Great King!

Fresh songs, My Singer! And brave let them be!
I’d have friends hear, exchange their joys with me.

To pleasure them who walk the ways of bliss.
Once more pray sing of Barbud and Perwis!

I’ve caught Fate at her knavish tricks again!
I’ll toy with Love--forget both life and men!

Upon this gloomy resurrection shore,
Alone the blood of grapes is ours to pour.

I watched amazed the dizzy Heaven spin:
Who is freed from life to-day? Who will death begin?

Mere fraud and vanity are things of earth;
The Night is pregnant. What brings she to birth?

Sure happiness and peace no man’s may be.
Who stands safe on a bridge built unsafely?

The vulture’s instinct hath the greedy dust,
Which Selm and Tur into the darkness thrust.

Beside this road of ruin, desolate and dead,
Efrasiab a palace proud builded.

Where is his great general gone, pray, Prince Piran?
And Schideh, where, with sword from Turkestan?

And where their fellow soldiers? No one knows--
Nor over them where reddest blooms the rose.

For struggle, strife and sorrow, Fate made men;
One fights best with the sword, one with the pen.