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 LXXVI 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. LXXVII 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. LXXVIII What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke! LXXIX What! from his helpless Creature be repaid Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd-- Sue for a Debt he never did contract, And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade! LXXX 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! LXXXI Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradist devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take! * * * * * LXXXII 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. LXXXIII Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small, That stood along the floor and by the wall; And some loquacious Vessels were; and some Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all. LXXXIV Said one among them---"Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta'en And to this Figure moulded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again." LXXXV Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; And He that with his hand the Vessel made Will surely not in after Wrath destroy." LXXXVI After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; "They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?" LXXXVII Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot-- I think a Súfi pipkin--waxing hot-- "All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?" LXXXVIII "Why," said another, "Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well." LXXXIX