TO ABU'L-ALA
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 dwelling
Of thy sight, the light thus inward flowed;
And on the shoulders of the crouching Darkness
Thou hast risen to the highest road.
I have seen thee walking with Canopus
Through the stellar spaces of the night;
I have heard thee asking thy Companion,
"Where be now my staff, and where thy light?"
Abu'l-Ala, in the heaving darkness,
Didst thou not the whisperings hear of me?
In thy star-lit wilderness, my Brother,
Didst thou not a burdened shadow see?
I have walked and I have slept beside thee,
I have laughed and I have wept as well;
I have heard the voices of thy silence
Melting in thy Jannat and thy hell.
I remember, too, that once the Saki
Filled the antique cup and gave it thee;
Now, filled with the treasures of thy wisdom,
Thou dost pass that very cup to me.
By the God of thee, my Syrian Brother,
Which is best, the Saki's cup or thine?
Which the mystery divine uncovers—
If the cover covers aught divine.
And if it lies hid in the soul of silence
Like incense in the dust of ambergris,
Wouldst thou burn it to perfume the terror
Of the caverns of the dried-up seas?
Where'er it be, Oh! let it be, my Brother.—
Though "thrice-imprisoned,"i thou hast forged
us more
Solid weapons for the life-long battle
Than all the Heaven-taught Armorers of yore.
"Thrice-imprisoned," thou wert e'en as mighty,
In the boundless kingdom of the mind,
As the whirlwind that compels the ocean,
As the thunder that compels the wind.
"Thrice-imprisoned," thou wert freer truly
Than the liegeless Arab on his mare,—
Freer than the bearers of the sceptre,—
Freer than the winged lords of the air.
"Thrice-imprisoned," thou hast sung of freedom
As but a few of all her heroes can;
Thou hast undermined the triple prison
Of the mind and heart and soul of man.
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.
Ameen Rihani.