The Flower That Once Has Blown Forever

Why Ponder Thus The Future To Foresee, And Jade Thy Brain To Vain Perplexity? Cast Off Thy Care, Leave Allah’s Plans To Him – He Formed Them All Without Consulting Thee.

Ah, Take The Cash, And Let The Credit Go, Nor Heed The Rumble Of A Distant Drum!

Indeed The Idols I Have Loved So Long, Have Done My Credit In This World Much Wrong; Have Drowned My Glory In A Shallow Cup, And Sold My Reputation For A Song.

This Body Is A Tent Which For A Space Does The Pure Soul With Kingly Presence Grace; When He Departs, Comes The Tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes It, And Moves To A New Halting-place.

And That Inverted Bowl They Call The Sky, Whereunder Crawling Cooped We Live And Die, Lift Not Your Hands To It For Help-for It As Impotently Moves As You Or I