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 the Earthen 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-by!" LXVI So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, One spied the little Crescent all were seeking: And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother, Brother! Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a creaking!" * * * * * LXVII Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt, So bury me by some sweet Garden-side. LXVIII That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air, As not a True Believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware. LXIX Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong: Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song. LXX