XVII THE PRIDE OF THE TAILOR

Oh, sliding down the desert from Shiraz The tailor-man from Meshed tore his hose: A crowning test, a broken man! "Ah, was I born that fate might practise fancy-blows? "The road is rougher than a magnate's mirth Toward the humble, long as a bad debt. I cannot dream of any woman worth This cloth. To me 'twas dearer than a pet." Then Dreamer-of-the-Age cried: "Bring me thread Strong as the bridge as they call Pul-i-Katûn! For Meshed's champion tailor-man is dead Unless his wounded pride be succoured soon." Launched on the seaward slope the pilgrims went On to the gulf, and heard, athwart the dim Night echoing, a sufferer's lament And Dreamer-of-the-Age consoling him: "The night fits down on the desert, brother; We are drawn there-through like a piece of thread. The steepened sky and the vastness smother Uneasy sleep in her league-wide bed. Rocked to and fro with a camel's burden On broken tracks, that are thin as scars, We near the Gulf. Have we seen our guerdon?" "Yea, every night we have seen the stars." "The dust is thick, and our own feet raise it. Our eyes were clear did our feet but rest. We give our heart and no sign repays it. What need we ever a further test! We drift along with the old dumb neighbour In the old blind alley we call our goal, Hope: all that comes of a soul's life-labour." "It was the labour that made the soul." "We stride ahead, but in every village A brother faints and a weakness falls. The tribes that till and the tribes that pillage Are reconciled with the life that palls. Oh, townsmen tread to a fixed thanksgiving, But what of us, if these pitying throngs Should ask the end of our harder living?" "God knows the answer. They know our songs, "The coloured patch on the background, Silence, The gleaming thought that is Love's to wear Undimmed through space to a myriad-while hence. Could the hands be worthy that knew not care To weave Love's garb? Though we needs must suffer, Shall we sing the worse that we sing in vain? Our songs shall rise as the road grows rougher. In the breathless hills, in the fevered plain, "They mount as sparks from the night's oases, And fall far short of the idol's feet. They are stored by God in his secret places, The least-lit stars of his darkest street. Yet ten worlds hence they shall dance, my brother, To travelling winds.... If our songs were worth One gleam of light to the Way of Another, We bless the sorrow that gave them birth."