How The Poet For An Hour Was King Poem by Silas Weir Mitchell

ONCE in a garden space, Saädi saith,
I came upon a tower, where within
There lay a king imprisoned until death
Should set him free; and thinking deep of sin,
And those who took its madness to and fro
Below the dead hope of these prison bars,
I saw the thoughtless stream of pleasure flow
Till evening, and the sad reproachful stars
Loosed a great sorrow on me for this king
To whom in other days I joyed to sing.
Himself had trained himself to noble use
Of that great instrument, a man; abuse
Of power he knew not; never one
So served victorious virtue. Then there came
Defeat and ruin. Now no more the sun
Shall see again his face who reckoned fame
As but an accident of righteous deeds.
Thus evening found me thinking how exceeds
Man's strangest dream, what Allah wills for him,
Till through the shadows of the twilight dim
I heard the gray muezzin call to prayer.
Upon the sands I knelt alone, and there
Entreated Allah till the middle hour.
Among the palms that were around the tower
Came, as if pitiful, the nightingale,
And sang and sang as if 't were sin to fail;
Whilst I who loved this great soul come to naught
Stayed wondering if any solace brought
The happy song that knows not pain of thought.
But then I heard above me, clear and strong,
The king's voice rising gather force of song,
Till from the prison wall its tameless power
Triumphant rang, as in some doubtful hour
Of angry battle or when from retreat
It called again the shame of flying feet.
Now like a war drum rolling far away
Its stormy rhythms died. No voice may say
Its after-sweetness, for, as drops a bird
That high in air hath on a sudden heard
Its little ones below, and surely guessed
The lonely sadness of the yearning nest,
Fell earthward pitiful the singer's verse,
Cradled the many griefs of man, the curse
Of pain, of sin, and in its soothing rhyme
Rocked into peace these petty woes of time,
Till I, who would have given a caliph's gold
For consolation, was myself consoled.
Musing, I said, 'Lo! I will be this king,
Because a poet can be anything,
And may inhabit for a wilful hour
A maiden heart, or haunt a dewy flower,
Or be the murdered, or the murderer's hate.'
I called to mind all knowledge, small or great,
Men had of him who sang, when his estate
Knew power and its danger. How he ruled
A wayward race I knew; how sternly schooled
His gentleness to give large justice sway;
How helped the kindly arts of peace, and gay,
And masterful of all that makes life sweet,
The jewel love set in this crown complete.
These, and much other gathered up from thought,
I took—and lo, how strange! A moment brought
The whole to oneness, as when on a glass
The sun-rays fall, and bent together pass,
And glowing, flash a point of burning light;
So, for a time I was the king that night.

A king was I,—a king of Allah's birth,
In one brief hour I lived long years of earth.
I broke the robber tribes who vexed with wrong
My peaceful folk. Yea, as the simoon strong
That hurls the sands of death, in will and deed
A king I rode. Then saw my people bleed
My state fall from me, and a brutal fate
Wreck law and justice; with a tranquil face
Beheld die out of life its joy and grace,
And quick death busy with whate'er I loved—
All these I saw, but with a heart unmoved,
And marvelled at myself, as in a dream
A man hath wonder when his visions seem
Fitting and true to sense. And so erelong,
Considering what fault had let the wrong
O'ercome the right, I lost myself in song.

Am I the potter? Am I the clay?
Allah, Thou knowest! Soft and gray
Fall the curling shreds away.
Lo, the noiseless feet of years
Swift the rhythmic treadle ply;
Hath the potter doubts and fears?
Is the clay kept soft with tears?
Still the busy wheel doth fly.
He is the potter, I am the clay;
Swiftly drop the ribands gray,
Flower and vine leaf silently grow,
Strong and gracious the vase doth show,
Firm and large,—the cup of a king.
Hither and thither wandering
The potter's fingers deftly smooth
Tangled tracery, and groove
Emblems, texts, the rose of love.
Suddenly his fingers slip,
Cracks the ever-thinning lip.
Was it the potter? Was it the clay?
Allah! Allah! who can say?
And the king I was that night
Smiled, to see the potter's plight.

I am the potter, I am the clay,
Spinning fall the earth-threads gray,
Deftly molded, strong and tall
Grows the vase, and over all
Bud and roses, vine and grape,
Twine around its comely shape.
Was it potter? Was it clay?
Did the potter's hand betray
Indecision? Who can say?
At his feet the fragments roll;
Lo, beside the wheel he stands
Wondering, with idle hands.
Let him gather up his soul
And make the clay a poor man's bowl!

Thus said the quiet king I was that night,
And o'er me grew the life of morning light,
While from the constant minaret above,
As drops a feather from the angel love,
Fell the first call to prayer, and overhead
A strong voice from the prison tower said,
'Allah il Allah! God is ever great.
Time is his prophet for the souls who wait.'