Ode to Melancholy

The sadness of the sleeping hours; who could endure?
When past are the splendid powers, prophets of poetry gone;
When to night turns the evening's spell, who could revel alone,
When soon rings the midnight bell, bereft of drunken lure?

For is friendship not a lost thing; found in chance's flight?
And alike the gladness age does bring, best had in bitter taste;
Won't weary mouths that sweetness favour, turn this wine to waste,
Lose in loss a thing to savour, pass a pleasure of deep delight?

And is not love feather-light too; once to love and then to lose?
Does dying light not leave us rue; how ashes follow a flaming fire,
And how cold is that empty hall; how silent its echoing desire?
Yet in silence squall; why would you care of silence abuse?

Why abuse the glance of the moon, the sparkling stars of ice?
Sooner, sooner, play a stranger tune! chime hollow and sad,
And when asleep, sooner plot aloud; on the morn to wake up glad!
For is this hue not fair and proud; does this sadness not suffice?

Dialogue between three wise persians

Wikipedia has this to say, within a certain article:

"This account is particularly interesting in light of a possibly apocryphal story recounted by Jorge Luis Borges. In this story a pact is formed between a young Nizam al-Mulk (at that time known as Abdul Khassem) and his two friends, Omar Khayyam and Hassan-i-Sabbah. Their agreement stated that if one should rise to prominence, that they would help the other two to do likewise. Nizam al-Mulk was the first to do this when he was appointed vizier to the sultan Alp Arslan. To fulfil the pact he offered both friends positions of rank within the court. Omar refused the offer, asking instead to be given the means to continue his studies indefinitely. This Nizam did, as well as building him an observatory. Although Hassan, unlike Omar, decided to accept the appointment offered to him, he was forced to flee after plotting to dispose Nizam as vizier. Subsequently, Hassan came upon and conquered the fortress of Alamut, from where he established the Assassins."

I have, of course, read that bit of Borges.

'We find ourselves in the grand madrasah of Cairo; or, in more
detail, in a secluded courtyard within it, where rising marble
steps on four sides surround a grand fountain in Roman style. Here,
slanting roofs the colour of sandstone lean over the courtyard,
providing the shade only the twin heirs of Jamshid and Zohák can
appreciate, accompanied by fine palm trees with large,
overshadowing leaves. Above the roofs of the university, we may see
a dozen towers of darkness, whose innumarable steps even now a
dozen muezzins climb. Ignorant or unheeding of this, three young
persians, whose vivid eyes reveal wisdom unbecoming of their age,
recline on the marble steps, their heads cooled by the spirits of
shadows, and their feet warmed by them of the sun. In their hands
they indolently hold cups and glasses filled with ice-cold water,
topped with chunks and cubes of the transparent mirage itself; a
boundless luxury to have. Suddenly, the fairest of the persian
youth begins to exclaim with joyful air:'

Nizam Al-Mulk: You harsh master, who laid low the pride of Babylon,
and you who obliterated the glories of Rome, have you now forsaken
your cursed habits? Am I asleep or awake, and if asleep - whence
these dreams that would befit a caliph? Do you allow friendship
such as this, friends like these, only to take them away; or is
this finally the promised temptation that will rival the paradise?
Omar Khayyam: I hear you! I love my mother; for my father I have
in store but praise; my brothers truly deserve the name of that
word; but you - how many virgins would have to pass, for them to
steal but one gaze from me now? Quickly! Invigorate your memory,
lest this sight shall soon fracture and shatter!
Hassan i-Sabbah: Bold words I hear, and vows of power! But are
they not deserved, now if never else? The eagle has its valley and
mountain, but I would not trade your presence for its wings!
Nizam: You vindicate me, though I would need no vindication. Did
not the damed philosopher Epicurus abandon his gods for this: for
the pleasure of cold water, enjoyed amongst his boundless friends?
Hassan: The shadow of morality ever hangs above the pleasure. Can
you blame Epicurus for trading idolatry for atheism? I think not.
Omar: Ice-water among the young, steaming tea among the old;
Epicurus is close to my heart as well. Though he be damned, I hope
he shall enjoy bathing in cold water in his damnation.
Nizam: Epicurus knew no paradise, he made the right choice; to
enjoy the company of closest friends, in the life he saw as
limited. We, whose sight scans the infinite, must be content with
limited friendship. All earthly things come to an end: madrasahs
close, and friends separate.
Hassan: Sad words but true; my heart hears not, and my mind would
wish to follow suit. But must it truly be so? Friends may separate,
and courses diverge, but memories as strong as this never fade
away. Will we not one day, when one is in Sind, the Second in
Cordoba, and the last one in Samarkand, meet in some distant
courtyard like this, and relive all the pleasant memories?
Nizam: I would wish it so, but it is not only thus, that the
courses of men diverge in time. In long years hence, will not one
be a king, the second a beggar, and third a captain in fabled
Abyssinia? Would the captain set his sail to unprofitable lands,
the king grant audience to the beggar? I would, if I were the king,
but will it always be so? Will my vizier too never turn you away,
and lock you behind my doors?
Hassan: For that reason then, why not make such a vow, to never
betray and not to forget the brotherhood, though brothers were to
die, and new friends usurp their place? Let us cast our lot
together, so that if one were to become a prince, and the others
beggars, the prince would then fulfill the dreams of all three!
Were I the king, dozen beggars could enter the front-door, but none
would leave - only princes would haste through the back-door!
Omar: If dreams were water, yours would be wine: dreamy and
deceitful. If princes fulfilled all the promises they gave to the
common man and the sundry soldier - why, every prostitute would be
a queen, and the back-alleys of Baghdad paved with gold.
Nizam: Such cold words! Why not for once, let the sun reflect
from your cold cup?
Omar: And spoil the fortune? You wish. Did not the triumvirate of
Caesar last but a while, though all were princes, and none a
beggar? Had Pompey been a pauper, you think the Romans would still
rule Alexandria?
Hassan: Would you rather have no vows, Omar? Is your invigorated
memory enough to last a lifetime?
Nizam: I will give my word, and his too, if need be. My brotherly
love would make another man!
Omar: Fine. Call me a clay pot if you wish, but my heart pumps
hot blood. I vow to keep my friendship, though all others vows be
rent untrue.
Nizam: I vow for my honour, I vow for life. In thus vowing, let
the other man in me keep his love, mine shall now never die.
Hassan: Here, let me spill my cup. Though the water I spilled be
the water of love and life, I would not regret this vow.
Omar: I vow for us to remain brothers, and a persian never
abandons his brother, though he be trapped in the passes of
Thermopylae!
Nizam: I vow for us to remain friends, and I would rather abandon
a brother than friend. Let him who stands in light give me strength!
Hassan: I vow... - wait! What is it that I hear; a score of
muezzins chants the song for prayer! Posthaste, brothers! There is
a vow still more sacred!
Nizam and Omar: We haste to pray!

A Succession of Courtships

The poet is in romantic mood...

Look! There on the green field by the woods,
Where all is still, and where no strife intrudes,
A spring-hare in youthful pride now moves,
In quiet courtship his will he proves,
As akin to those who stalk in rogue's guise,
He circles and circles, his amorous prize!
Look! What does she see? blades of grass quiver,
The object of his will now, she flexes and shivers,
Tenses her ears, yet hears only the wind blow,
As it sends ripples and waves, through the meadow.
Sudden then, when in all peace and tranquility,
She now drowses in the shade of a yew-tree,
Having all strife forgotten; the issue he presses,
Pounces upon her, from amid the tresses!
Look! Then above this scene of merry passion,
Fiery amour, and nature's courtly fashion,
Amid the branches of the same flower-gilt yew,
We find this merry repeated, and made anew;
As on a branch, a royal hawk now perches,
And amid the clouds, his coming queen he searches.
Look! As above, where fails the human eye,
Past the view, they sudden race to the sky,
And where once did captivate peace and quiet,
Now a pair of hawks, does reign and riot!
Till, climbing the sky to its deepest depths,
Shrieking, they plunge down from its misty heights!
Look! Below then of that, and aside the other,
That same play, repeats a pair yet another,
Fancying a discourse in a secluded bower,
Where he now, to his love offers his flower;
And who could refuse, when passions of her heart,
Are so enlivened by the sublime of his art?
Look! It's not but those of more poetic soul,
Who find in gain the loss of love's control,
And whose wits then does rob a hesitant kiss,
As all caution forgetting, she indulges its bliss;
And akin to the hare and the hawk, he too is gripped,
By the silvery-rimmed dream of her courtship.

Dreams of a New Age

'Some have it, that the world's a great machine,
Or rather, an automaton under heaven's laws,
That helplessly clutches its moving jaws.
Or perhaps, a puppet flailing its narrow limbs,
When pulled by the the shadow above its strings.
Be it this or that, I'm inclined to think,
When travelling by air, I see the city-lights,
Or remember pictures taken from distant heights,
That show the orb, as if lit by thousand sparks,
That there is a blind order, a silent pathway
That all must follow, as best they may;
And when to thousand directions the sparks do move,
For same reason, thousand corridors their owners race,
Unknowing and unheeding, their dreams do chase.
And whence those dreams? From memories of races past,
So that when the race is at its end at last,
Same men shall take their place, and same queen
Shall dream of drones, at the very same scene.'

So at least thought one such man, having left
The corridors behind, done his repeating toil,
Of pressing buttons, or some just as pointless deed,
That to no progress and no meaning shall ever lead,
And having to sanctuary of nature withdrawn,
Now would dream and gaze to the sky before dawn.
And what should he see, if not visions of his age,
How past the sky would flow wide streams of gold,
That the puppeteer lets flow, from above his hold;
Or perhaps how the continents move and drift,
When those streams suddenly their angles shift;
Or life herself, gazing at her azure reflection,
Wondering how emotions shuffle behind every production;
Or sleepy-eyed death, who now lets his scythe rest
Between the mounds of her solicitors breasts?
Or something else, some mosaic of infinite hues,
That better describes the vision that none yet views.

House of Silver Flowers

1.
It's said of every city and gathering,
That being fit for prosperity and glory,
Excess in richness, burdened with treasure,
Its men grow lax, offspring fit for leisure,
Unweaned of indulgence, of boundless wealth;
Soon overpowered by age and health,
They feel the weight of life on their shoulders,
And some lose their way, others their bliss,
When on dark evenings they'd part with a kiss;
And soon forgetting the touch of death,
Some pawn their jewels and give out their might
To a passing magician, to reclaim some night.
From these come those who in their dismay's pit,
Having yet succumbed to their furies' wit;
Who in lonely nights with fixated eye,
Would damn the missives of paternal sky,
And of those, who with myriad riches endowned,
Have of their familial love long been disawoved;
It is these, who leaving from their ivory towers,
Seek the houses of pleasure and of silver flowers.

2.
Suppose then, that this here be such a city,
To whom the able man of every race,
Is drawn to make abode on the central place,
And where his sons grow lax, daughters immoral,
Till wandering, they come to grasp the truth,
That like a fleeting bird is their youth,
And that the bliss they've had since birth,
Could be more, its extremes still higher,
If together they'd band to seek this desire.
And this here then, is such a feasthouse,
Its inhabitants no virtue and no morals rouse,
And no saintly power here holds its force.
Like a castle, with sundry fences rimmed,
With thousand windows, all with veils dimmed,
The forbidden city stands, large as the garden,
Where the king of China kept his glen;
Its roofs and domes now shine with gold,
Its stately doors are adorned with gems,
Which as roses sport silver from their stems.

3.
Beyond the door lies the chamber of pleasure,
Where to debt some turn their family's treasure;
And if you allow me some digression, the wine
Though inferior to other drugs, is here so fine
As to be worth eternity, and thus here some stay,
As ever and ever, passes the passing day.
Though companiate forms pass here too,
Theirs the company both fickle and slight,
As their acquaintance lasts but a night,
And here only the common and base variety,
Make their stay, and feel illimited glee;
To others, its but begining, to start
One's delving, and to make an initiative;
An aperitif of what the House can give.
Thus most here enjoy the culinaries of earth
But a moment, to avoid gaining too much girth,
And wine too flows but a moment, fore it stops,
To savour the taste most taste it in drops;
Yet soon move past, and continue on,
So that while some remain, soon most have gone.

4.
In the second chamber then, the common love
Holds sway and dominates the conversation,
And the gifted fraction of every station
Here unites, and beside a fountain makes merry.
Shifting walls enclose this place, and here
Many shrouds of seething lust appear,
And beside where a loving company sleeps,
Some idle Cupids now finger their bows,
And watch over, as their power slowly grows.
I suppose, no garden or woodland bower,
Was more welcoming, to pass an idle hour,
Nor so made, as to more salute sincere love;
Truly, those chambers behind and forward,
Most taste once or twice, then discard,
Find their seats in some empty garden,
And then summon a lovely and peerless friend,
In whose company all their years then spend.
Yet men like wolves sometimes ignore
Their nature, and sometimes walk past open fire,
And wander off in search of different desire.

5.
In the third chamber then, the highest of arts,
Flourish and flower, and gather in beauty,
While being cultivated in peaceful harmony;
A bit of scenery then: there's boundless chamber,
Betwixt with the noblest trees of nature,
Amongst which statues of classic taste endure,
Yet no paintings, the canvas being dome and walls,
So that no relief can challenge those of these halls,
Which being so vibrant and strong, and emotional
In content, not only mimic but surpass life,
So that a glance remakes scenes of peace and strife.
The reader may suppose its a place of pedantry,
Of academic virtue, removed from life and truth,
Yet that is not so, the artist that here rules
Is no ghoul, and its nobility no fools;
For as they say, 'A life that avoids a fantasy,
Is dreamless and dead,' and so but few do qualify,
And it is ruled by the mighty and the wild of eye,
As some here chat to statues, and others think they reply.

6.
The fourth chamber then, is but for the few,
As most find nothing, and walk right through,
For the chamber's empty, or close enough,
With secluded corners, gardens hid behind a shade,
That few ever find, and where no merry is made.
Its a place of silence, where none comes but flees,
Discontented of what in the world he sees.
The only voice here is when the wind blows,
An innocent voice that never reveals who there goes,
Who wanders, seeking solace in walking,
And who perches, seeking solace in stillness.
As one may guess, the inhabitants are so rare,
That here they're ever alone in their lair,
Whoever they might be, wolves or men,
Or but lonesome spirits. So, let's give example,
Here's the rarest of the seclusive kind,
Someone who's unique, whose peer you'll not find,
A long lost heroine, having discarded her spear,
Removed her glittering mail, bare-feet she walks,
With aversion to company, only to fauna she talks.

7.
This here then, the fifth and last of chambers,
Is all but empty, inhabits no company but one;
Unadorned and stark, the door itself does lock,
I suppose, to keep away the uninitiated flock;
Not that it'd tempt many, with one window,
And one object, a globe of transparent glass,
Through which one sees, how some clouds pass.
Its ruler is mysterious too, perhaps a hero,
Or shall I say, what one sees when looks to a mirror,
Or an ideal, a person pictured as a seeking force,
That looks for but a reason, or its own source.
Its a small room, unfurnished, atop a tiny tower,
That overlooks the house with its many rooms,
And where one can see the graveyard with its tombs;
There's no reason to inhabit it, unless it be
To observe the house and the passing clouds,
And to clear one's head of the unruly crowds,
Or perhaps, I've heard, his is the great purpose,
To seek what neither silence nor company brings,
To grasp the reason of all these earthly things.

Extempore

'They say,
God in heaven keeps a list of his creatures,
In which he notes all of the human features,
And this perhaps being of reader's interest,
Well, - let him check with which he's been blest:'
'Firstly, let us deal with the common variety,
It being so common, - 'tis the reason we have society,'
'Secondly, some constantly clamber and climb,
Till up there, - they'll find one copper dime,'
'Thirdly, let us not ignore the faithful lot,
I say, - theirs the habit to mistake a hat and a pot,'
'Fourthly, consider the fanatic, zealous, strict,
Of these are eunuchs, soliders, and porters picked,'
Fifthly, some are defined by being so artistic,
These always, - like leeches form their own clique,'
'Sixtly, the greedy, lustful and overtly gluttonous,
Together make up the category miscellaneous,'
'Seventhly, some are defined by their lack of motion,
They blend among us well, - like a drop in an ocean,'
'Eightly, the common love and amorous contact,
Some minds dominate, - the majority, to be exact,'
'Ninthly, there are those austere kind of men,
Who regret, - that man ever left his cave and den,'
'And finally, suppose there's also the virtous kind,
These, - from this list you will not find.'

Interlude

There are times, as when with violent fatigue pressed,
And keen to indulge in a wasteful, willful thought,
When though yet with beauty and youthful awe blessed,
One little cares for what his heedless hand has wrought,
And would rather lay a sleeping head on earthly breast.
Then thinking as if all trembling passion now has ceased,
And leaning to a motherly bust, he'd seek soothing sleep,
To abjure both lively emotion and all worrying fears;
And no aspiration nor worthy ambition he would keep,
But in sanctuary lay, and not wake up in thousand years.