West-Eastern Divan. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Ay, many a thing true poets hate;
Shall he who beauty loves, as well
Foul things and loathsome tolerate?
Primeval matter – if the singer
But mix and mingle these, the four,
Like Hafiz he, true joyance-bringer,
Shall quicken folk for evermore.
VIII. CREATION AND ANIMATION
JACK ADAM was a clod of clay
God shaped a human creature;
Yet from Earth's womb he brought away
Much dress in form and feature.
The Elohim breathed into his nose
The very finest spirit;
He took a sneezing fit, and rose
More like a man of merit.
And yet in brawn and brain and bone
He still was half a lump, sir,
Till Noah for the simpleton
Found his true cure – the bumper.
Betimes the lump perceived a glow,
Well wetted with the potion;
The barm began to stir the dough
Which put itself in motion.
Thus, Hafiz, may thy singing sweet
And thy devout example,
Lead us, while clinking glasses meet,
Into our Maker's temple.
IX. PHENOMENON
WHEN the dark rain-drift
Phoebus has wooed,
Springeth a rainbow swift,
Rising bright-hued.
There o'er the misty height
Spans the arch now,
What if the bow be white,
Yet 'tis heaven's bow.
Greybeard, with clouds in sight,
Blithe shouldst thou prove;
What if thy hair be white,
Yet shalt thou love!
X. A THING OF BEAUTY
WHAT motley shows are those that bind
The heavens with yonder height,
Through mists of morning ill defined,
That half defeat the sight?
Are they the Vizier's tents displayed,
Where his loved women bide?
Are they the festal carpets laid
For one most dear – his bride?
Scarlet and white, mixed, freckled, streaked –
Vision of perfect worth!
Hafiz, how comes thy Shiraz thus
To greet the cloudy North?
Yes, neighbour poppies spreading far,
A cordial, various band,
As if to scorn the god of war,
Kindly they robe the land.
So let the sage who serves our earth
With flowers still make it gay,
And, as this morn, the sun shine forth
To light them on my way.
XI. DISCORDANCE
UPON the left beside the rill
Sits Cupid fluting,
The fields to right wild clamours fill,
Mars' trumpet bruiting;
To those pure notes of soft accost
The ear's beguiled,
But all the bloom of song is lost
In uproar wild;
Warbles the flute with liquid strain,
While booms war's thunder;
If sudden frenzy seize my brain,
What cause for wonder?
Louder the flute notes on the left,
The trump still brays;
Distract I roam, of wits bereft;
Should this amaze?
XII. THE PAST IN THE PRESENT
LILY and rose by morn bedewed
Are blooming in the garden near;
Soft with low-growing underwood
The rocks climb upward to the rear;
And, girdled with its belt of trees,
A feudal castle crowns the height
Where curves its marge by soft degrees,
Till with the valley it unite.
And every air some odour brings
As when love ached in those old days,
Those dawnings when my psaltery-strings
Contended with the morning's rays,
There where from greenwood shades would start,
Rounded and full, the hunters' chant,
To quicken and to fire the heart,
Accordant to its wish or want.
Ever the woods fresh leaves unfold!
With these your soul rejoicing fill;
Pleasures that were your own of old
May be enjoyed through others still;
No man will then complain of us
Care for ourselves was all we had;
Through all life's process various
You must have virtue to be glad.
And with such winding of my lay,
Hafiz, once more we hear thy voice;
'Tis meet in each concluded day
With the rejoicing to rejoice.
XIII. SONG AND PLASTIC ART
FROM clay wherein his fingers wrought
Fair shapes the Greek may fashion,
And in the son his hand begot
Rejoice with rising passion.
Our hands in the Euphrates stream
Have