Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate; And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road; But not the Master-knot of Human Fate. XXXII There was the Door to which I found no Key; There was the Veil through which I might not see: Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE There was--and then no more of THEE and ME. XXXIII Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn; Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn. XXXIV Then of the THEE in ME who works behind The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard, As from Without--"THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!" XXXV Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur'd---"While you live Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return." XXXVI I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answer'd, once did live, And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd, How many Kisses might it take--and give! XXXVII For I remember stopping by the way To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all-obliterated Tongue It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!" XXXVIII And has not such a Story from of Old Down Man's successive generations roll'd Of such a clod of saturated Earth Cast by the Maker into Human mould? XXXIX And not a drop that from our Cups we throw For Earth to drink of, but may steal below To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye There hidden--far beneath, and long ago. XL As then the Tulip for her morning sup Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up, Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup. XLI Perplext no more with Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, And lose your fingers in the tresses of The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine. XLII And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press End in what All begins and ends in--Yes; Think then you are TO-DAY what YESTERDAY You were--TO-MORROW you shall not be less. XLIII So when that Angel of the darker Drink At last shall find you by the river-brink, And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink. XLIV Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide? XLV 'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest. XLVI