Oh God! this poor bewilder'd Kurd am I, Than any Kurd more helpless!—Oh, do thou Strike down a Ray of Light into my Darkness! Turn by thy Grace these Dregs into pure Wine, To recreate the Spirits of the Good! Or if not that, yet, as the little Cup Whose Name I go by, not unworthy found To pass thy salutary Vintage round! II. And yet how long, Jámi, in this Old House Stringing thy Pearls upon a Harp of Song? Year after Year striking up some new Song, The Breath of some Old Story? Life is gone, And yet the Song is not the Last; my Soul Is spent—and still a Story to be told! And I, whose Back is crookéd as the Harp I still keep tuning through the Night till Day! That Harp untun'd by Time—the Harper's hand Shaking with Age—how shall the Harper's hand Repair its cunning, and the sweet old Harp Be modulated as of old? Methinks 'Tis time to break and cast it in the Fire; Yea, sweet the Harp that can be sweet no more, To cast it in the Fire—the vain old Harp That can no more sound Sweetness to the Ear, But burn'd may breathe sweet Attar to the Soul, And comfort so the Faith and Intellect, Now that the Body looks to Dissolution. My Teeth fall out—my two Eyes see no more Till by Feringhi Glasses turn'd to Four; Pain sits with me sitting behind my knees, From which I hardly rise unhelpt of hand; I bow down to my Root, and like a Child Yearn, as is likely, to my Mother Earth, With whom I soon shall cease to moan and weep, And on my Mother's Bosom fall asleep. The House in Ruin, and its Music heard No more within, nor at the Door of Speech, Better in Silence and Oblivion To fold me Head and Foot, remembering What that Beloved to the Master whisper'd:— "No longer think of Rhyme, but think of Me!"— Of Whom?—of Him whose Palace The Soul is, And Treasure-House—who notices and knows Its Incomes and Out-going, and _then_ comes To fill it when the Stranger is departed. Whose Shadow—being Kings—whose Attributes The Type of Theirs—their Wrath and Favour His— Lo! in the Celebration of His Glory The King Himself come on me unaware, And suddenly arrests me for his own. Wherefore once more I take—best quitted else— The Field of Verse, to chaunt that double Praise, And in that Memory refresh my Soul Until I grasp the Skirt of Living Presence.