Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HOW THE POET FOR AN HOUR WAS KING, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL Poet's Biography First Line: Once in a garden space, saadi saith Last Line: "time is his prophet for the souls who wait." Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Loss; Prisons & Prisoners | ||||||||
ONCE in a garden space, Saädi saith, I came upon a tower, where within There lay a king imprisoned until death Should set him free; and thinking deep of sin, And those who took its madness to and fro Below the dead hope of these prison bars, I saw the thoughtless stream of pleasure flow Till evening, and the sad reproachful stars Loosed a great sorrow on me for this king To whom in other days I joyed to sing. Himself had trained himself to noble use Of that great instrument, a man; abuse Of power he knew not; never one So served victorious virtue. Then there came Defeat and ruin. Now no more the sun Shall see again his face who reckoned fame As but an accident of righteous deeds. Thus evening found me thinking how exceeds Man's strangest dream, what Allah wills for him, Till through the shadows of the twilight dim I heard the gray muezzin call to prayer. Upon the sands I knelt alone, and there Entreated Allah till the middle hour. Among the palms that were around the tower Came, as if pitiful, the nightingale, And sang and sang as if 't were sin to fail; Whilst I who loved this great soul come to naught Stayed wondering if any solace brought The happy song that knows not pain of thought. But then I heard above me, clear and strong, The king's voice rising gather force of song, Till from the prison wall its tameless power Triumphant rang, as in some doubtful hour Of angry battle or when from retreat It called again the shame of flying feet. Now like a war drum rolling far away Its stormy rhythms died. No voice may say Its after-sweetness, for, as drops a bird That high in air hath on a sudden heard Its little ones below, and surely guessed The lonely sadness of the yearning nest, Fell earthward pitiful the singer's verse, Cradled the many griefs of man, the curse Of pain, of sin, and in its soothing rhyme Rocked into peace these petty woes of time, Till I, who would have given a caliph's gold For consolation, was myself consoled. Musing, I said, "Lo! I will be this king, Because a poet can be anything, And may inhabit for a wilful hour A maiden heart, or haunt a dewy flower, Or be the murdered, or the murderer's hate." I called to mind all knowledge, small or great, Men had of him who sang, when his estate Knew power and its danger. How he ruled A wayward race I knew; how sternly schooled His gentleness to give large justice sway; How helped the kindly arts of peace, and gay, And masterful of all that makes life sweet, The jewel love set in this crown complete. These, and much other gathered up from thought, I tookand lo, how strange! A moment brought The whole to oneness, as when on a glass The sun-rays fall, and bent together pass, And glowing, flash a point of burning light; So, for a time I was the king that night. A king was I,a king of Allah's birth, In one brief hour I lived long years of earth. I broke the robber tribes who vexed with wrong My peaceful folk. Yea, as the simoon strong That hurls the sands of death, in will and deed A king I rode. Then saw my people bleed My state fall from me, and a brutal fate Wreck law and justice; with a tranquil face Beheld die out of life its joy and grace, And quick death busy with whate'er I loved All these I saw, but with a heart unmoved, And marvelled at myself, as in a dream A man hath wonder when his visions seem Fitting and true to sense. And so erelong, Considering what fault had let the wrong O'ercome the right, I lost myself in song. Am I the potter? Am I the clay? Allah, Thou knowest! Soft and gray Fall the curling shreds away. Lo, the noiseless feet of years Swift the rhythmic treadle ply; Hath the potter doubts and fears? Is the clay kept soft with tears? Still the busy wheel doth fly. He is the potter, I am the clay; Swiftly drop the ribands gray, Flower and vine leaf silently grow, Strong and gracious the vase doth show, Firm and large,the cup of a king. Hither and thither wandering The potter's fingers deftly smooth Tangled tracery, and groove Emblems, texts, the rose of love. Suddenly his fingers slip, Cracks the ever-thinning lip. Was it the potter? Was it the clay? Allah! Allah! who can say? And the king I was that night Smiled, to see the potter's plight. I am the potter, I am the clay, Spinning fall the earth-threads gray, Deftly molded, strong and tall Grows the vase, and over all Bud and roses, vine and grape, Twine around its comely shape. Was it potter? Was it clay? Did the potter's hand betray Indecision? Who can say? At his feet the fragments roll; Lo, beside the wheel he stands Wondering, with idle hands. Let him gather up his soul And make the clay a poor man's bowl! Thus said the quiet king I was that night, And o'er me grew the life of morning light, While from the constant minaret above, As drops a feather from the angel love, Fell the first call to prayer, and overhead A strong voice from the prison tower said, "Allah il Allah! God is ever great. Time is his prophet for the souls who wait." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SECULAR GAMES by RICHARD HOWARD WHAT DID YOU SEE? by FANNY HOWE JULIA TUTWILER STATE PRISON FOR WOMEN by ANDREW HUDGINS BOTHWELL: PART 4 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN BOTHWELL: PART 4 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN WORK IN PROGRESS by CHARLES MARTIN THE SUBCULTURE OF THE WRONGLY ACCUSED by THYLIAS MOSS A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86 by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [MARCH 8, 1862] by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL |
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