The Singing Caravan: A Sufi TaleVansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Religion
The Singing Caravan: A Sufi Tale
Vansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Poetry
"Then since we have discovered
That women need our strength"--
(The tavern-houris hovered)
"To hold them at arm's length,
Sit down in this rest-house, and
Tell me a tale among
The tales, one in your thousand!"
This was the story sung:
"I threw my love about you like fine raiment;
I let you kill my pride.
You passed me by, but smiled at me in payment,
And I was satisfied.
"I made my mind a plaything for your leisure,
Content to be ignored.
Body and soul I waited on your pleasure,
Waited--without reward.
"I have no faint repinings that we met, dear,
Or that I left you cold.
I rub my hands. You will be colder yet, dear,
Some day when you are old."
"Forbidden wine is mellow.
The sun has set. Of whom
Sing you this song, Brave Fellow?
Night is the ante-room
Breeze-sprinkled to keep cooler
The feasting-halls behind."
"She might have been my ruler
But for my _Strength of Mind_."
"That was the tune to whistle!
How have I longed to learn
The deeds of men of gristle
Like mine!..." "Tell me in turn
Some of your lore of women,
Whose wiles are deep as _bhang_.
Your strength shall teach to swim men
Who fall in love...." He sang:
"You came to me, and well you chose your quarry.
You told your tale, and well you played your rôle.
You spoke of suffering, and I was sorry
With all my heart, with all my soul.
'Out of the deep,' you said. I thought to save you,
And stunned myself upon the covered shoal.
Yet, poor deceptive shallows, I forgave you
With all my heart, with all my soul.
You sought whatever evil had not sought you.
In vain I strove to make your nature whole.
I did not know the market that had bought you
With all your heart, with all your soul.
If man had one pure impulse you would smudge it.
You had one gift, my pity, which you stole.
Now I will only tell you that I grudge it
With all my heart, with all my soul."
"Of whom this song, Brave Fellow?
The stars in heaven's black soil
Fold up their petalled yellow
That pays the angels' toil."
The lamp had burned its wick dim,
The pair had drunk their fill....
"I might have been her victim
But for my _Strength of Will_."
Then one said to the other:
"Such strength as yours and mine
Must put its foot down, brother,
And stay here--pass the wine--
Till, for the world's salvation,
Shall radiate from this den
The Great Confederation
Of Independent Men."
* * * * *
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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