And still we weave, and still we are content In slaving for the sovereigns who have spent The savings of the toiling of the mind Upon the glory of Dismemberment. XXII Nor king nor slave the hungry Days will spare; Between their fangéd Hours alike we fare: Anon they bound upon us while we play Unheeding at the threshold of their Lair. XXIII Then Jannat or Juhannam? From the height Of reason I can see nor fire nor light That feeds not on the darknesses; we pass From world to world, like shadows through the night. XXIV Or sleep--and shall it be eternal sleep Somewhither in the bosom of the deep Infinities of cosmic dust, or here Where gracile cypresses the vigil keep! XXV Upon the threshing-floor of life I burn Beside the Winnower a word to learn; And only this: Man's of the soil and sun, And to the soil and sun he shall return. XXVI And like a spider's house or sparrow's nest, The Sultan's palace, though upon the crest Of glory's mountain, soon or late must go: Ay, all abodes to ruin are addrest. XXVII So, too, the creeds of Man: the one prevails Until the other comes; and this one fails When that one triumphs; ay, the lonesome world Will always want the latest fairy-tales. XXVIII Seek not the Tavern of Belief, my friend, Until the Sakis there their morals mend; A lie imbibed a thousand lies will breed, And thou'lt become a Saki in the end. XXIX By fearing whom I trust I find my way To truth; by trusting wholly I betray The trust of wisdom; better far is doubt Which brings the false into the light of day. XXX Or wilt thou commerce have with those who make Rugs of the rainbow, rainbows of the snake, Snakes of a staff, and other wondrous things?-- The burning thirst a mirage can not slake. XXXI Religion is a maiden veiled in prayer, Whose bridal gifts and dowry those who care Can buy in Mutakallem's shop of words But I for such, a dirham can not spare. XXXII Why linger here, why turn another page? Oh! seal with doubt the whole book of the age; Doubt every one, even him, the seeming slave Of righteousness, and doubt the canting sage. XXXIII Some day the weeping daughters of Hadil Will say unto the bulbuls: "Let's appeal To Allah in behalf of Brother Man Who's at the mercy now of Ababil." XXXIV Of Ababil! I would the tale were true,-- Would all the birds were such winged furies too; The scourging and the purging were a boon For me, O my dear Brothers, and for you. XXXV Methinks Allah divides me to complete His problem, which with Xs is replete; For I am free and I am too in chains Groping along the labyrinthine street. XXXVI And round the Well how oft my Soul doth grope Athirst; but lo! my Bucket hath no Rope: I cry for water, and the deep, dark Well Echoes my wailing cry, but not my hope. XXXVII