The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Silence!” The grass said, and in sadness
Let fall its tears in pearls of dew;
“The generous man robs none of gladness
And never scorns old friends for new.

I am no rose among the roses,
And yet there's not a child but knows
That the poor grass that ties these posies
Is from the Garden of the Rose!”

[The love I bear you, dearest]

The love I bear you, dearest,
Would make the prettiest tale,
If I had for a pen to write it
The bill of a nightingale.

And what should I have for paper?
I know what would be best:
Each page should be a rose-leaf,
As snow white as your breast.

And with such pen and paper
What ink should then be mine?
Tears—when I wrote of my sorrow,
When I wrote of my pleasure—wine!

[The flying of the arrow]

“The flying of the arrow
In the air;
The shifting of the shuttle
In the loom;

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The sinking of the water
In the sand;
The passing from the cradle
To the tomb;
Tell me, Sufi, tell me, is it all?

What the bow that shoots us
Into life?
Where the loom that throws us
To and fro?
Whose the hands that spills us
Into death?
What in the making mars us
Here below?
O tell me, tell me, Sufi, what it is!”

“I see the arrow flying,
Not what sends it,
The bow that shoots it hither,
And who bends it;
I see the shuttle shifting,
Not what throws it,
The weaver who begun it,
And will close it;
I see the water sinking,
Not what spills it;
The emptied pitcher filling,
And who fills it;
But where the arrow flieth,
And what the loom is weaving,
And where the water sinketh,
I do not see at all.
What in the cradle lieth,
And what it is that thinketh,
And what it is that dieth,

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The living and the leaving,
I do not know at all.
Perhaps it is not, Hadje,
Perhaps it does but seem:
The shadow of a vanished cloud
On a troubled stream;
What some Power remembers—the Phantom of its Dream!”

[Their names who famous were of old]

Their names who famous were of old
Are antiquated; long ago
Camillus, Cæsar, Scipio
Were with forgotten men enrolled.
Augustus, Hadrian, Antonine,
There is an end to all the line.
Where is the hand that grasped the sword?
The brow that wore the diadem?
Let the grave answer, if it can;
Speak, speak, thou dust that once was man!
The hollow grave returns no word,
Oblivion long has buried them.
This fate is theirs, and this alone,
Who in a wondrous way have shone.
For all the rest, who go to death,
As soon as they breathe out their breath,
They are gone—pursuit of them is vain,
And no man speaks of them again.
Since all is dust, then, what remains
That should employ our serious pains?
Just thoughts, as if the gods were by,
Good deeds, and words which never lie:
A disposition that receives,
Accepts what happens, and believes

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The hidden spring from which it flows,
The distant sea to which it goes,
Though by no mortal understood,
Is necessary, wise, and good.
Great names have perished; this survives,
And shapes the issue of our lives.

[Trust not fortune. She will be]

Trust not fortune. She will be
Everything but true to thee.
False and fickle all her life,
The old dame has been the wife
Of a thousand bridegrooms—none
Mourned a day when he was gone.
She delights to desolate,
Very bitter is her hate;
And she hates most when she knows
There are those who scorn her, those
Who rejoice in better things
Than the baubles that she brings,
Conqueror's laurel, crown of kings!
To reject these and be wise
Is a folly in her eyes;
To be good is worse than this,
Since it shows her what she is,
And that she is baffled, too;
For what is there she can do
To the good and to the wise,
Who her earthly dross despise,
For their hearts are in the skies,
Where their heavenly treasure lies!

392

[Men seek retreats, and some retire]

Men seek retreats, and some retire
To country houses; mountains these
Affect, and those the shore of seas:
Thou, too, dost such things much desire.
This is a mark of common men,
Which thou, desiring, shouldst refuse.
There is for thee, when thou shalt choose,
Deeper retirement. Have it, then.
Retire into thyself; nowhere
With greater quiet, lesser care
Than in his own soul man can be,
The seat of all tranquillity;
For rest is nothing else, I find,
Than the good ordering of the mind.
Give, then, thyself to this retreat
Constantly, and thyself renew;
And let thy principles be few,
But like the earth beneath thy feet
Solid, and like the Heaven serene,
For these will keep thy spirit clean.
It will return not as it went,
But free from every discontent.

Desire of the thing called Fame,
The petty wish to leave a name,
Perhaps torments thee. It should not.
See how soon all things are forgot,
Things that are mean and things sublime.
The chaos of unending time
Stretches before thee and behind:
Behold it with a stable mind.
Know that applause is empty; know
That who pretend to give thee praise
Hold not the same mind many days;
And for the praise that flatters so,

393

Think of the narrowness of the space
That circumscribes it. For the earth,
The whole earth, is a point, and small
The nook that is thy dwelling-place;
And few are in it; and from birth
They hasten deathward, one and all.
Who are these men, and what their ways,
That thou shouldst hanker for their praise?

What, then, remains? This there remains,
This territory of thine own.
Retire into it, be alone,
Dismiss what now disturbs, or pains;
Be strong—you may, be free—you can,
And look at all things like a man;
For know that things, or great or small,
Do never touch the soul at all.
And know that all which thou dost see
Changes and will no longer be.
Nothing endures, O Lord, but Thee!

[What harmonious is with thee]

What harmonious is with thee,
O Universe! is so with me,
Nothing too early, or too late,
That is at thy appointed date.
Everything is fruit to me,
Which thy seasons, Nature, bring:
All things from thee, and all in thee,
To thee returneth everything.
“Dear city of Cecropia,”
The poet said its streets who trod:
Wilt thou not say—be wise and say—
“Dear city of the living God!”

394

[Though thou shouldst live a thousand years]

Though thou shouldst live a thousand years,
Whatever fate gives,
Or what refuses,
Let this support thee in thy fears,
Let this console thee in thy tears,
Man loses but the life he lives,
And only lives the life he loses.
Longest and shortest are but one:
The present is the same to all;
The past is done with and forgot;
The future is not yet begun;
Nothing from either can befall,
For none can lose what he has not.
All things from all Eternity
Come round and round the whirling spheres;
It makes no difference if we see
The same things for a hundred years,
Or for a million. They are here.
Who longest lives, who shortest dies,
Loses the same sweet earth and skies,
For they remain—we disappear.

[Pain and pleasure both decay]

Pain and pleasure both decay,
Wealth and poverty depart;
Wisdom makes a longer stay,
Therefore, be thou wise, my heart.

Land remains not, nor do they
Who the lands to-day control.
Kings and princes pass away,
Therefore, be thou fixed, my soul.

395

If by hatred, love, or pride
Thou art shaken, thou art wrong;
Only one thing will abide,
Only goodness can be strong.

[The whole of this great world, I say]

The whole of this great world, I say,
From the first to the last born,
Since it passes swift away,
Is not worth a barley-corn.

To some better world than this
Hie thee—open wide the door
To some chamber—such there is—
Whence thou shalt depart no more.

[When the drum of sickness beats]

When the drum of sickness beats
The change o' th' watch, and we are old,
Farewell youth, and all its sweets,
Fires gone out that leave us cold!

Hairs are white that once were black,
Each of fate the message saith;
And the bending of the back
Salutation is to death.

[To bear what is, to be resigned]

To bear what is, to be resigned,
The mark is of a noble mind.

396

Stir not thy hand, or foot, or heart,
Be not disturbed, for Destiny
Is more attached, O man, to thee
Than to thyself thou art!
If patience had but been thy guest,
Thy destined portion would have come,
And like a lover on thy breast
Have flung itself, and kissed thee dumb!

[Why should man struggle early, late]

Why should man struggle early, late,
When all he is is fixed by Fate?

For everything that comes and goes,
Goes, comes at its appointed date.

The wind is measured as it blows,
The grains of sand have each their weight.

Only the fool can say he chose
The woman that is now his mate.

And so with friends and so with foes,
The rising and the falling State.

'Tis idle to support, oppose,
To open or to shut the gate.

What is we see; but no one knows
What was, or will be, small or great.

Nothing is certain but the close,
And that is hid from us by Fate.

397

[Old Bishop Ivo met one day]

Old Bishop Ivo met one day,
As he went up and down the lands,
A stern, sad woman on her way,
With fire and water in her hands;
In this hand water, that hand fire,
And she was filled with holy ire.

“What mean those symbols, Mother, tell?
And whither go you?” She replies:
“To quench with this the flames of Hell,
With this to burn up Paradise.
Fear, hope must nevermore be known,
But man serve God through love alone.”

[The carver thought, the carver wrought]

The carver thought, the carver wrought,
There was a rapture in his mood;
He saw Our Lady in his thought,
And wrought upon the sandal wood.
His hand would not obey his will,
It faltered and forgot its skill.
“No one will say who sees that face,
‘Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!’”

He dropped his tools, he bowed his head,
He heard a voice that somewhere spoke:
“Go, burn the sandal-wood,” it said,
“And work upon that block of oak.
What one holds not the other may,
The image may be there to-day.”
It was, and all who saw her face
Said, “Mary Mother, full of grace!”

398

[There was of old a Moslem saint]

There was of old a Moslem saint
Named Rabia. On her bed she lay
Pale, sick, but uttered no complaint.
“Send for the holy men to pray.”
And two were sent. The first drew near:
“The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not bow beneath the rod,
And bear the chastening strokes of God.”
Whereto the second, more severe:
“The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not in the rod rejoice,
And make the strokes he bears his choice.”
Then she, who felt that in such pain
The love of self did still remain,
Answered: “No prayers can be sincere
When they from whose wrung hearts they fall
Are not as I am, lying here,
Who long since have forgotten all.
Dear Lord of Love! There is no pain.”
So Rabia, and was well again.

[Said Ibn Abi Wakkoo, whose strong bow]

Said Ibn Abi Wakkoo, whose strong bow
Laid from afar the Prophet's foemen low,
So sure his arrows in their deadly flight,
Was smitten in his age with loss of sight.
As he was led to Mecca, on the way
The men he passed entreated him to pray
To God for them. Whereat his nephew spake,
Feeling great pity for his blindness' sake:
“Uncle, to-day make one thing clear to me.
Thou prayest for others, and God heareth thee;
Why dost thou, then, remain in this thy night?
Why not implore Him to restore thy sight?”

399

“Son of my brother,” with a smile he said,
And laid his hand upon the stripling's head,
“If I see not, God sees, and His decree
Is dearer than the eyes with which I used to see.”

[There came to Nushervan, surnamed the Just]

There came to Nushervan, surnamed the Just,
A certain man, a courtier, with the dust
Of travel on him, and with heart elate.
“I hear,” he said, “that God (His Name be Great!)
Has taken from the world your mortal foe,”
Naming a king whom death had then laid low.
“And did you hear,” the Sultan made reply,
“That I am overlooked, and not to die?
I have no room for exultation, friend,
For, like my rival's life, my life must end.”
The courtier slunk away, abashed and sad,
For he had learned that good news may be bad.

[Let me a simple tale repeat]

Let me a simple tale repeat,
As Sadi wrote it. Thus it ran:
His servants, at a hunting seat,
Were roasting game for Nushervan,
And, as they had no salt there, one
Was sent unto a village near
To fetch some. Ere the man could run,
The Sultan called him back. “Come here.
Take it at a fair price, and see
There is no force, lest there should be
A precedent established so,
Which might the village overthrow.”

400

They asked what damage could ensue
From such a trifle. Whereupon
He answered: “When the race was new
Oppressions were but small and few;
But as the years went on and on
Every new comer added more,
And each was larger than before,
Till what was small had grown so great
It toppled o'er on many a State,
And crushed the people unto dust.
We must be just.” And from that day,
Sadi, I think, goes on to say,
They surnamed Nushervan the Just.

[He needs a guide no longer]

He needs a guide no longer
When he hath found the way
That leads already to the Friend;
He cannot go astray.

He need not search for ladders
To climb with feet and hands,
When on the topmost dome of heaven
His soul already stands.

No messenger nor letter
He needs, when he at rest
Lies folded close in favor
Upon the Sultan's breast.
Rumi, thou needest nothing more,
For what thou hast is best.

401

[How many, many centuries]

How many, many centuries,
When Death's long sleep has closed my eyes,
Mankind will walk above my head,
And I shall never hear their tread.
My kingdom as it came will go,
Another will possess my lands;
They passed from hand to hand, and so
Will pass from mine to other hands.”

This verse was written long ago
Upon the crown of Kai Khosro.

[Walking along the shore one morn]

Walking along the shore one morn,
A holy man by chance I found,
Who by a tiger had been torn,
And had no salve to heal his wound.
Long time he suffered grievous pain,
But not the less to the Most High
He offered thanks. They asked him why?
For answer he thanked God again;
And then to them: “That I am in
No greater peril than you see;
That what has overtaken me
Is but misfortune—and not sin.”

[“Shall we, O Master,” Ke Loo said]

“Shall we, O Master,” Ke Loo said,
“Still serve the spirits of the dead?”
“To serve the dead why should we strive,
Who could not serve them when alive?”

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“Tell me what death is,” said Ke Loo.
To whom again Confucius saith:
“While life we do not, cannot know,
What can we hope to know of death?”
And further, since he still would seek:
“Ke Loo, I do not care to speak.”

“If you, the Master, speak not, then,
What shall your scholars say to men?”
“Does Heaven speak?” the sage replied,
And as he spoke his spirit sighed:
“The seasons run their endless ways,
The days go by with tireless wing,
And all things come in all the days,
But Heaven—does Heaven say anything?”