Ferishtah's Fancies/Plot-Culture
10. PLOT-CULTURE.
"Ay, but, Ferishtah,"—a disciple smirked,—"That verse of thine 'How twinks thine eye, my Love,Blue as yon star-beam!' much arrides myselfWho haply may obtain a kiss therewithThis eve from Laila where the palms abound—My youth, my warrant—so the palms be close!Suppose when thou art earnest in discourseConcerning high and holy things,—abruptI out with—'Laila's lip, how honey-sweet!'—What say'st thou, were it scandalous or no? I feel thy shoe sent flying at my mouthFor daring—prodigy of impudence—Publish what, secret, were permissible.Well,―one slide further in the imagined slough,—Knee-deep therein, (respect thy reverence!)—Suppose me well aware thy very selfStooped prying through the palm-screen, while I daredSolace me with caressings all the same?Unutterable, nay—unthinkable,Undreamable a deed of shame! Alack,How will it fare shouldst thou impress on meThat certainly an Eye is over allAnd each, to mark the minute's deed, word, thought,As worthy of reward or punishment?Shall I permit my sense an Eye-viewed shame, Broad day-light perpetration,—so to speak,—I had not dared to breathe within the Ear,With black night's help about me? Yet I standA man, no monster, made of flesh not cloud:Why made so, if my making prove offenceTo Maker's eye and ear?""Thou wouldst not standDistinctly Man,"—Ferishtah made reply"Not the mere creature,—did no limit-lineRound thee about, apportion thee thy placeClean-cut from out and off the illimitable,—Minuteness severed from immensity.All of thee for the Maker,—for thyself,Workings inside the circle that evolveThine all,―the product of thy cultured plot. So much of grain the ground's lord bids thee yield:Bring sacks to granary in Autumn! spareDaily intelligence of this manure,That compost, how they tend to feed the soil:There thou art master sole and absolute—Only remember doomsday! Twit'st thou meBecause I turn away my outraged noseShould'st thou obtrude thereon a shovelfulOf fertilizing kisses? Since thy sireWills and obtains thy marriage with the maid,Enough! Be reticent, I counsel thee,Nor venture to acquaint him, point by point,What he procures thee. Is he so obtuse?Keep thy instruction to thyself! My ass—Only from him expect acknowledgement The while he champs my gift, a thistle-bunch,How much he loves the largess: of his loveI only tolerate so much as tellsBy wrinkling nose and inarticulate grunt,The meal, that heartens him to do my work,Tickles his palate as I meant it should."
Not with my Soul, Love!—bid no Soul like mineLap thee around nor leave the poor Sense room!Soul,—travel-worn, toil-weary,—would confineAlong with Soul, Soul's gains from glow and gloom,Captures from soarings high and divings deep.Spoil-laden Soul, how should such memories sleep?Take Sense, too—let me love entire and whole—Not with my Soul!
Not with my Soul, Love!—bid no Soul like mineLap thee around nor leave the poor Sense room!Soul,—travel-worn, toil-weary,—would confineAlong with Soul, Soul's gains from glow and gloom,Captures from soarings high and divings deep.Spoil-laden Soul, how should such memories sleep?Take Sense, too—let me love entire and whole—Not with my Soul!
Eyes shall meet eyes and find no eyes between,Lips feed on lips, no other lips to fear!No past, no future—so thine arms but screenThe present from surprise! not there, ’tis here—Not then, ’tis now:—back, memories that intrude!Make, Love, the universe our solitude,And, over all the rest, oblivion roll—Sense quenching Soul!