X THE SONG OF THE SELVES

'Twas in old Tehran City, Hard by the old bazaar, I heard a restless ditty That pushed my door ajar; A song nor great nor witty, It spoke of my own mind. I looked on Tehran City, And knew I had been blind, Or else the streets were altered As by a peri's wand. "Who are you, friends?" I faltered. "The Pilgrims of Beyond," They said. I kissed the tatters That wiser heads contemn. I saw the Thing-that-matters, And took the road with them. I seek. Bestow no pity On Failure's courtier. Say: "'Twas well to find the city, But that was yesterday."

Athirst as the Hadramut, Our spirits correspond With God by all the gamut Of harmony, too fond Of Him for prayer that rifles His treasury for trifles. No load of blessing stifles The Pilgrims of Beyond.

And yet the empty-handed Hold richer merchandise Than ever fable landed From Dreamland's argosies, Since we, the symbol-merchants, Are partners with Bulbul. The silversmith of her chants Knows how our chests are full. In marts, where echoes answer And only they, we trade. But join our caravan, sir, And count your fortune made. Dawn brings us dazzling offers With fingers gemmed and pearled, And evening fills our coffers As we explain the world, Green fields and seas that curtsey To us and mock Despair; For blossoms in the dirt see Their spirit in the air. And Ecstasy our servant Demands no other wage But that we be observant To joy in pilgrimage.

We do not bid our master Declare His word His bond, Or make His payments faster— As though He would abscond! We ask Him for too little To strain at jot or tittle. We know our lives are brittle, We Pilgrims of Beyond.

We come from everlasting Towards eternity, Ho! not in dirge and fasting But lapped in jollity. Though sackcloth be our clothing We bear no ash but fire. We have no sickly loathing Of youth and youth's desire. We prize no consummation Of one peculiar creed. We travel for a nation, The one that feels our need. Our tongue conceals no message, But leaves you free to find, And vaunts itself the presage Of those that come behind.

Here is no patch of shade. A Fierce wilderness and blonde Links Delhi to Hodeidah, Tashkent to Trebizond. The cargo is our brother's, We march and moil for others, Until the desert smothers The Pilgrims of Beyond.

Hark how our camels grumble At morn! Would you permit The stone on which you stumble To make you carry it? And if at last your burden Be cheapened in a shop, Seraglio or Lur den, Should lack of humour stop The game at its beginning? We lug the stuff of dreams. Earth does her best by spinning, She cannot help the seams; But you can help to monger The broidery. She may Have made you richer, stronger, To give her best away. I own no musk or camphor, I have no truck with care, Nor change the thing I am for The things men only wear.

First cousin of a sieve is The uniform we donned. We slop along on ghivehs, In rags caparisonned. No Shah has ever paid us. All brigands mock and raid us, And misery has made us The Pilgrims of Beyond.

What then! Would you be willing To quit the caravan, And fall again to drilling, Pent in the walled meidan, When history flings open Blank scrolls for you to write Such victories as no pen Has ever brought to light? You shall not burn as Jengiz, Nor rage like Timur Lang. Your foemen are ferengis Of whom no epic sang. The housed that blame the tented, Or comfort those that think, The flocks that die contented With settling down to blink The sun we keep our eyes on, That bow their heads too far To face their own horizon, On these be war on war. Cursed by the bonds you sever, The bondsmen you release, Go, seek the Land of Fever And find the Land of Ease.

Lift up your hearts, ye singers! We lift them up in song. Behold, the sunset lingers. No less shall night be long. We meet her unaffrighted, Though never bourne be sighted. We meant to be benighted Still moving fleet and strong. We smooth the stony places For those that else despond. We pass, and leave no traces Save this, a broken frond, And this, that hands once craven Take hardship for the haven Upon whose rocks is graven: "The Pilgrims of Beyond."