XLVI

For in and out, above, about, below,

'T is nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,

Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

A

XLVII

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,

End in the Nothing all Things end in — Yes —

Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what Thou shalt be-Nothing-Thou shalt not be less.

LXVI

I sent my Soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that After-life to spell :

And by and by my Soul return'd to me,

And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"

LXVII

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerg'd from, shall so soon expire.

LXVIII

We are no other than a moving row

Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with the Sun-illumin'd Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

(See Stanza XLII.)

XLVIII

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee take that, and do not shrink.

XLIX

'T is all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

L

The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left, as strikes the Player, goes;
And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all— He knows HE knows!

A

LI

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

(See Stanza XLIII.)

LXIX

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days:
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

LXX

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;

And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
HE knows!

He knows about it all

HE knows

A

LXXI

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on nor all your Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

术

LII

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help - for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

LIII

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead, And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:

Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

LIV

I tell Thee this - When starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal

Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtarí they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul