The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. LXXVII For let Philosopher and Doctor preach Of what they will, and what they will not--each Is but one Link in an eternal Chain That none can slip, nor break, nor overreach. LXXVIII And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It As impotently rolls as you or I. LXXIX With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read. LXXX Yesterday, _This_ Day's Madness did prepare: To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair: Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where. LXXXI I tell you this--When, started from the Goal, Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtarí they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul LXXXII The Vine had struck a fibre: which about If clings my being--let the Dervish flout; Of my Base metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without. LXXXIII And this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite, One Flash of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright. LXXXIV What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke! LXXXV What! from his helpless Creature be repaid Pure Gold for what he lent us dross-allay'd Sue for a Debt we never did contract, And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade! LXXXVI Nay, but, for terror of his wrathful Face, I swear I will not call Injustice Grace; Not one Good Fellow of the Tavern but Would kick so poor a Coward from the place. LXXXVII Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin! LXXXVIII Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin the Face of wretched Man Is black with--Man's Forgiveness give--and take! * * * * * LXXXIX As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away, Once more within the Potter's house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay. XC