The night was like jet dipped in pitch, there lent
No planet lustre to the firmament,
The moon, appearing in her new array
In readiness to take her throneward way,
Much brightness lost by sojourning below;
Her waist was shrunk, her heart was full of woe,
Her crown was well-nigh lapis-lazuli;
Through rust and dust she journeyed through the sky.
Night's retinue had spread out everywhere
A carpet black as raven's plumes, the air
Was like rust-eaten steel; thou wouldst have cried:—
“Its face is smirched with pitch!” On every side,
Like some black serpent with its jaws stretched wide,
Was very Áhriman, each sigh of whom
Was like a negro making charcoal fume.
The garden and the stream's lip seemed to be
Like billows surging on a pitchy sea
O'er which the circling heaven paused wonderingly.
The sun had lost its power; thou wouldst have said:—
“Earth sleepeth with a pitch-like robe o'erspread.”
The world's heart trembled at itself; no sounds
Were heard but watchmen ringing on their rounds;
The birds refrained from song, the beasts were still,
The world's lips closed alike for good or ill,
And height and depth were lost. Amid the woes
Of that long vigil strait at heart I rose.
I had one in the house, a loving wight,
To whom I called and bade to bring a light.
Descending to the garden presently
My darling Idol came and said to me:—
“What need for light? Will sleep not visit thee?”
I said: “Mine Idol! I am not at one
With slumber. Bring a candle like the sun,
Set it in front of me, then spread the board,
Take up the harp, and let the wine be poured.”
My darling Idol fetched me lamps a-shine,
Fetched quinces, oranges, pomegranates, wine,
And one bright goblet fit for king of kings,
Then plied at whiles the wine, at whiles the strings.
“Hárút performed enchantment,” thou hadst said,
My heart grew victor over drearihead,
And it seemed day with me in dark night's stead.
Hear what my loving comrade said to me
What time the goblet had joined company.
Thus said to me that sun-faced Moon of mine:—
“May heaven have joyance of that life of thine.
Quaff thou thy wine while from this volume's store
I will read out to thee a tale of yore.
Or ever part thereof shall reach thine ear
Thou wilt admire the process of the Sphere.
The theme is love, spell, war, and stratagem,
All worthy that a sage should list to them.”
“O Moon-face!” said I to that Cypress-stem,
“Recite, recite,” who answered: “That will I,
And thou shalt weave it into poetry.”
I said: “Begin, my fair-faced Moon! to read,
And make me love thee more. I may be freed
From my distemperature, and sleep betide
In musings, darling mate! by thee supplied.
Then will I turn the story, every whit,
To verse exactly as thou tellest it,
And, telling, offer praise to God above,
O my discreet companion and my love!”
That darling Idol read the tale to me
Out of the book of ancient legendry,
So now give ear the while that I rehearse,
And exercise thy judgment on my verse.