Their words, their selves, their figures, whate’er these may be, Are all Soul Absolute, without a trace to see. Sworn enemy is Body to their spiritual life, Just as one game of backgammon, with names full rife.[266] The body goes to earth; is soon reduced to clay; The soul endures like salt, and suffers no decay. The salt, than which Muhammed far more sapid is; From “Attic salt” that’s found in each _dictum_ of his. That Attic salt’s an heirloom, heritage from him; His heirs are here with thee. Seek unto them _passim_. 100 They’re sitting in thy presence. What’s in front of thee? Thy soul demands thy care. Where can thy forethought be? If thou still be in doubt, and not sure of thyself, Thou’rt slave unto thy body; soul thou hast not, elf. Behind, before, above, below, stands body’s shade. The soul has no “dimensions;” clearly it’s displayed. Lift thy eyes, dear Sir, in glorious light of God; That thou be not accounted most shortsighted clod. Thou nothing knowest or carest about, save grief and joy; Thou nothing, by mere nothings hemmed in, man or boy. 105 To-day’s a day of rain. Yet journey thou till night; Not on account of downpour, but because it’s light. One day did Mustafà go to the burial-ground. The Prophet at a funeral, his friend’s, was found. At filling in the grave he lent a helping hand; A living seed he planted in that holy land. The trees thereof are emblems,--cypress, fir, or yew; Their boughs are hands in prayer uplifted,--if men knew. They many lessons inculcate to men of sense, He who hath ears to hear may thence draw inference. 110 A contemplative mind from them new secrets culls. The heedless are amused with what men’s reason dulls. With tongue-shaped leaves and finger-twigs they us address; From inmost heart of earth they publish mysteries. As ducks dive into water, they plunge into earth. Like rooks they were, now peacocks, gay in their new birth. The winter shuts them up, as prisoners, in its ice. Black rooks then, bare; as peacocks spring bids them arise. God makes them look like dead in winter’s frozen reign, But with returning spring wakes them to life again. 115 Dull atheists contend this is a story old, And ask why we to God attribute it, so bold. They say these alternations ever thus were seen. The world of old, they think, as ’tis, has ever been. In spite of their contention, in breasts of His saints Has God at all times reared rich gardens free from feints.