The guiding hand of Allah I can see Upon my staff: of what use then is he Who'd be the blind man's guide? Thou silent oak, No son of Eve shall walk with me and thee. CII My life's the road on which I blindly speed: My goal's the grave on which I plant a reed To shape my Hope, but soon the Hand unseen Will strike, and lo! I'm but a sapless weed. CIII O Rabbi, curse us not if we have been Nursed in the shadow of the Gate of Sin Built by thy hand--yea, ev'n thine angels blink When we are coming out and going in. CIV And like the dead of Ind I do not fear To go to thee in flames; the most austere Angel of fire a softer tooth and tongue Hath he than dreadful Munker and Nakir. CV Now, at this end of Adam's line I stand Holding my father's life-curse in my hand, Doing no one the wrong that he did me:-- Ah, would that he were barren as the sand! CVI Ay, thus thy children, though they sovereigns be, When truth upon them dawns, will turn on thee, Who cast them into life's dark labyrinth Where even old Izrail can not see. CVII And in the labyrinth both son and sire Awhile will fan and fuel hatred's fire; Sparks of the log of evil are all men Allwhere--extinguished be the race entire! CVIII If miracles were wrought in ancient years, Why not to-day, O Heaven-cradled seers? The highway's strewn with dead, the lepers weep, If ye but knew,--if ye but saw their tears! CIX Fan thou a lisping fire and it will leap In flames, but dost thou fan an ashy heap? They would respond, indeed, whom thou dost call, Were they not dead, alas! or dead asleep. CX The way of vice is open as the sky, The way of virtue's like the needle's eye; But whether here or there, the eager Soul Has only two Companions--Whence and Why. CXI Whence come, O firmament, thy myriad lights? Whence comes thy sap, O vineyard of the heights? Whence comes the perfume of the rose, and whence The spirit-larva which the body blights? CXII Whence does the nettle get its bitter sting? Whence do the honey bees their honey bring? Whence our Companions, too--our Whence and Why? O Soul, I do not know a single thing! CXIII How many like us in the ages past Have blindly soared, though like a pebble cast, Seeking the veil of mystery to tear, But fell accurst beneath the burning blast? CXIV Why try to con the book of earth and sky, Why seek the truth which neither you nor I Can grasp? But Death methinks the secret keeps, And will impart it to us by and by. CXV The Sultan, too, relinquishing his throne Must wayfare through the darkening dust alone Where neither crown nor kingdom be, and he, Part of the Secret, here and there is blown. CXVI To clay the mighty Sultan must return And, chancing, help a praying slave to burn His midnight oil before the face of Him, Who of the Sultan makes an incense urn. CXVII