Saying of Il Haboul

- 1878-1915
Guardian of the Treasure of Solomon 
And Keeper of the Prophet’s Armour

My tent
A vapour that
The wind dispels and but
As dust before the wind am I
Myself.

Triad

These be 
three silent things: 
The falling snow . . . the hour 
Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one 
Just dead.

To the Dead in the Grave-Yard Under My Window

Written in a Moment of Exasperation

How can you lie so still? All day I watch 
And never a blade of all the green sod moves 
To show where restlessly you toss and turn, 
And fling a desperate arm or draw up knees 
Stiffened and aching from their long disuse; 
I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth 
To take its freedom of the midnight hour. 
Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones? 
The very worms must scorn you where you lie, 
A pallid mouldering acquiescent folk, 
Meek habitants of unresented graves. 
Why are you there in your straight row on row 
Where I must ever see you from my bed 
That in your mere dumb presence iterate 
The text so weary in my ears: "Lie still 
And rest; be patient and lie still and rest." 
I'll not be patient! I will not lie still! 
There is a brown road runs between the pines, 
And further on the purple woodlands lie, 
And still beyond blue mountains lift and loom; 
And I would walk the road and I would be 
Deep in the wooded shade and I would reach 
The windy mountain tops that touch the clouds. 
My eyes may follow but my feet are held. 
Recumbent as you others must I too 
Submit? Be mimic of your movelessness 
With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod? 
And if the many sayings of the wise 
Teach of submission I will not submit 
But with a spirit all unreconciled 
Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars. 
Better it is to walk, to run, to dance, 
Better it is to laugh and leap and sing, 
To know the open skies of dawn and night, 
To move untrammel'd down the flaming noon, 
And I will clamour it through weary days 
Keeping the edge of deprivation sharp, 
Nor with the pliant speaking on my lips 
Of resignation, sister to defeat. 
I'll not be patient. I will not lie still. 

And in ironic quietude who is 
The despot of our days and lord of dust 
Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop 
Grim casual comment on rebellion's end: 
"Yes; yes . . . Wilful and petulant but now 
As dead and quiet as the other are." 
And this each body and ghost of you hath heard 
That in your graves do therefore lie so still. 

The Guarded Wound

If it 
Were lighter touch 
Than petal of flower resting 
On grass, oh still too heavy it were, 
Too heavy! 

Related Poems

A Nocturn

Upon the face of darkness beams my soul— 
    Nearby, behind the curtains of my sight; 
And ’round it weary waves of wonder roll— 
    Sad seas of color o’er dead seas of light: 
    Here is no Space, no Time—nor day nor night— 
Here is the boundless, undiminished Whole— 
                 Here is my soul.

Here is no love that hides beneath its shoal 
    The sandix that can redden a sea of years; 
Here is no lust that lies to Beauty’s mole 
    And draws from eyes of flint a flood of tears; 
    Here is no disenchantment and no fears— 
No blasted hopes, no jaunty joy, no dole— 
                 Here is my soul. 

Now lost in clay and water; now the Whole 
    Is lost within me: sea and earth and sky 
I dismiss from my presence, as I roll 
    My lids and lo, the lord of night am I. 
    Into the airless wilderness I fly; 
Here is no vain desire, no galling goal— 
                Here is my soul. 

In Eternity, shod with the hoary noul 
    Of deathless Death—in dim and shimmering shades 
Of soilless vales that bosom and cajole 
    The crystal flowers dropping from cloud-cascades; 
    Here in the grove of myriad colonnades 
Of jet and pearl and amber I now stroll— 
                Here is my soul.

Song of Old Time

I wear not the purple of earth-born kings,
Nor the stately ermine of lordly things;
But monarch and courtier, though great they be,
Must fall from their glory and bend to me.
My sceptre is gemless; yet who can say
They will not come under its mighty sway?
Ye may learn who I am,—there’s the passing chime,
And the dial to herald me, Old King Time!

Softly I creep, like a thief in the night,
After cheeks all blooming and eyes all light;
My steps are seen on the patriarch’s brow,
In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow.
Who laughs at my power? the young and the gay;
But they dream not how closely I track their way.
Wait till their first bright sands have run,
And they will not smile at what Time hath done.

I eat through treasures with moth and rust;
I lay the gorgeous palace in dust;
I make the shell-proof tower my own,
And break the battlement, stone from stone.
Work on at your cities and temples, proud man,
Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can;
But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall,
And Time, Old Time, will be king after all.

Fire and Sleet and Candlelight

For this you’ve striven
    Daring, to fail:
Your sky is riven
    Like a tearing veil.

For this, you’ve wasted
    Wings of your youth;
Divined, and tasted
    Bitter springs of truth.

From sand unslakèd
    Twisted strong cords,
And wandered naked
    Among trysted swords.

There’s a word unspoken,
    A knot untied.
Whatever is broken
    The earth may hide.

The road was jagged
    Over sharp stones:
Your body’s too ragged
    To cover your bones.

The wind scatters
    Tears upon dust;
Your soul’s in tatters
    Where the spears thrust.

Your race is ended—
    See, it is run:
Nothing is mended
    Under the sun.

Straight as an arrow
    You fall to a sleep
Not too narrow
    And not too deep.