And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die, Lift not thy hands to _It_ for help—for It Rolls impotently on as Thou or I. LIII. With Earth's first Clay They did the last Man's knead, And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read. LIV. I tell Thee this—When, starting from the Goal, Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtara they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul. LV. The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about It clings my Being—let the Súfi flout; Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without. LVI. And this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite, One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright. LVII. Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestination round Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin? LVIII. Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make And who with Eden didst devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give—and take! * * * * * KÚZA—NÁMA. LIX. Listen again. One Evening at the Close Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose, In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone With the clay Population round in Rows. LX. And, strange to tell, among that Earthern Lot Some could articulate, while others not: And suddenly one more impatient cried— "Who _is_ the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?" LXI. Then said another—"Surely not in vain My substance from the common Earth was ta'en, That He who subtly wrought me into Shape Should stamp me back to common Earth again." LXII. Another said—"Why ne'er a peevish Boy, Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy; Shall He that _made_ the Vessel in pure Love And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!" LXIII. None answer'd this; but after Silence spake A Vessel of a more ungainly Make: "They sneer at me for leaning all awry; What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?" LXIV. Said one—"Folks of a surly Tapster tell, And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell; They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well." LXV. Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh, "My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry: But, fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and bye." LXVI.