My Rubaiyat, XXV–XLVIII

The circle widens, travels farther, With each emotion keenly felt Onward it pushes ’cross the waves Of storm-lashed oceans to unbend Its tide of beauty on the shore Of some hope-swept and sun-kissed isle.

And there amidst some rarer air To blossom forth in some great deed— May it be done by hand or mind— For the upheaval of the race, To reach some pinnacle of truth Where light envelops you and all.

This is the land where giant minds, Vaster than light, vaster than space Hear whisperings of the infinite, And with proud sorrow in their eyes, Their wild-maned coursers ever ready, Soar far into the skies of thought.

Yet who can follow flights like these, Who plucks the stars from night’s blue vault! Imagination, sluggish thing, Will not obey the gayer moods, Our mind can only peer as far As fate has lent it eyes to see.

Men do not think, they merely dream, They only long for crude, rough things, Madly chasing will-o’-the-wisps, Success by force they try to grasp, It lures them on to wilder scenes Where wolves in packs hunt dismal prey.

Why this dull haste, this sordid waste Of youth and manhood’s fullest powers? To amass riches for your heirs The highest interests seem low, And no man’s pelf does command health, Nor can it hold friendship or love.

So many do as others do, They cannot rise from the green mould With which their thoughts are overgrown. For them no lotus petals blow, They peevish bow to any yoke, And mole-like dig beneath the ground.

Thus people born in low estate Must drag their burden day by day, ’Tis hard to mend what is inborn And slow the lift to higher planes. If drudgery rules from morn to night— They needs must suffer earthly bane.

They stir the coals, press the bellows— White iron shimmers in the forge The air is dust, the houses black, Smoke dragons coil ’round culm and stack And belch foul breath into the street. Where is the sun? Has day turned night?

What use to speak to serfs like these Of odors sweet of new-mown hay, Red and blue flowers in the wheat, The old homestead, barns and stables, Cows shambling home the sunset road— The angelus over harvest fields.

There’s joy in labor; so they say, And well that its praises are sung, Or mankind in pale-mouthed despair Would leave factory, forge and shop, Stead living through their daily toil Without a thought that death is near.

Afraid of death men do not think Of their vague meaning on this earth. Blindly they hope for after-bliss Or sneer at things they can not guess, For is not death the cause of all That ever troubled human brains!

Why do we live, why do we hope, Why does this world exist at all! How do we dare to love and mate When every path is strewn with thorns, When children share in our fate And age is glad to greet the night!

And is it endless sleep and night. Deliverance or new keen pain? Hot pitch or stale ambrosia! There are too many gods adored, Can one be right, all others wrong— Who solves the problem why we are?

There is no answer to the quest, Who knows where we will meet again! The star realms opening at night Tell us of other wonder worlds— Are they spinning through space for us, Shall we breathe there an ampler air?

Follow yon pilgrims of the East Through avenues of cypress dim, Through golden temples, portals red— Faithful they climb the holy hill And there confront an empty space Is that the signet of the grave!

Some think they know and others doubt, But who can offer balm to all. If all were good and fair to meet No need there be of paradise, We would not long for other skies And gather fruit from every tree.

But what sad use the world has made Of nature’s boundless plenitude. The frank and free, the sane and true Are trodden down by foolish crowds. Greed, barren, shameless, rules supreme, There is no room for Christ on earth.

They dream of universal peace In times when greed still cruder grows Than in the days of Skalds and Huns— Oh, dream of a fraternal race, Of happiness to all of man! When will love stronger prove than war!

The sword shall break the sword they say, And force shall strangle force some day. Thus men march toward battles red, Their mangled bodies strew the plains, While o’er the corpse the mother wails, Her firstborn slain, her pride in life.

Why should youth be killed from afar, Races struggle in deadly clutch! Are no more fallow fields to plough? Is death’s scythe not keen enough! Oh, mankind, when will you waken To an honor nobler than death!

If no tread of marching armies Answered a nation’s bugle peal, If young and old refused to bear Arms ’gainst brethren they do not know, Then only, in some dim future May we greet the dawn-doves of peace.

One holy war has to be fought— To make both man and woman free: The world will flash with signal lights, Each land ring with its people’s voice— For from those crimson rivulets Will rise a saner sun-warm life.

For certain things needs must be changed, Times cannot stay so dull and grey. Men must rough a freer wind-blown life, Women no longer shed their bloom In drudgery for bed and fare, And children age before their time.