I become raging, mad:
Is that a wonder?

High swells the fluting flow,
Trumpets are rising,
I wander, frantic grow:
Is that surprising?

PAST IN THE PRESENT:

MORN

́ORN-BEDEW'D the rose and lily
In the garden near are blooming,

And beyond it spaces hilly

Rise o'ergrown with friendly glooming; So the lofty wood extending

Upward to the knightly hold,

Thence on downward ridge is blending
With the valley's silent fold.

Here the old scents do not alter
Where we felt the pains of love,
And the strings upon my psalter

With the beams of morning strove;
Where in full and rounded measure

Breathed the chase-song from the woods,

To enkindle and to freshen

All the bosom's wonted moods.

As fresh buds the woods embolden, So let Spring renew your heart, Give to other souls the olden

Joys you

cherished all apart;

Then no more will there be crying

That we suit ourselves alone,

Unto every rank supplying

Joys too wide to be our own.

This our song and our direction,
Touch of Hafis we employ,
For it is the day's perfection
With enjoyers to enjoy.

LE

SONG AND STATUE.

ET the Greek his tortured clay
To an image fashion,

O'er his handiwork betray
Liveliest of passion.

Our delight it is to clasp

Round Euphrates' motion,

Rhythm in our hands to grasp
Lapsing to the ocean.

Thus to quench my spirit's brand

Leaves a song resounding;

Plastic is the Poet's hand,

Water's self comes rounding.

8

WHA

PLUCK.

HAT the spell that everywhere
Makes men's souls to freshen?

Listen, as I speak it fair

Into tone's expression.

Clear thy course of all that teases!
Out with sombre striving!
Ere he sings and ere he ceases,
Poet must be living.

What if life its brazen message
Through the soul is droning!
Poet's heart, mid saddest presage,
Is itself atoning.

ROUGH AND READY.

DOESY a wanton mood!

POESY
Thus upbraid not me,

Not until my cheery blood
Flows as warm in thee.

If each hour my sorrow were,
Tasting bitterly,

Thou couldst not be modester

Than myself should be.

When a maiden first is seen,
Modesty is good,

Win her by a gentle mien,

For she flies the rude.

Also good is modesty

When there speaks the Wise,

Who of Time, Eternity,

Better can advise.

Poesy a haughty mood!

It contents me quite :

Friends and women, fresh of blood,

Enter! I invite.

Monkling without cowl and frock

Twaddle not o'er me!

Bankrupt mak'st me, and not broke

Into modesty.

At thy phrase's this or that

I recoil, refuse;

Have already scuffed it flat

Underneath my shoes.

When the poet's mill doth grind,
Do not lift thy hand:
Those will due allowance find

First who understand.

B

Du

ALL-QUICKENING.

UST for thee is elemental;
How the dust thou deftly flingest,

Hafis, when in Darling's honor

Thou a dainty songlet singest!

For the dust upon her threshold
Is by thee more precious holden
Than the rug which pets of Mahmud
Kneel on mid its flowers golden.

When the zephyr from her portal
Lightly whirls in dust and poses,
Fragranter than musk the odor,
Dearer than the oil of roses.

In the Northland ever shrouded
Dust for me was seldom rising,
But in lands of heat and pollen
It has often been sufficing.

'Tis long since that silent hinges

To the touch of love were swinging! Comfort me, O rainy tempest,

Wake the scent to greenness clinging!