A Legend of Old Persia and Other Poems — A Closer Reading

Never did these happy people Suffer sickness, plague, or dearth, Living in a golden climate In the fairest place on earth, Living thus thro' endless summers And half-summers hardly colder, Growing, tho' they hardly guessed it, Very gradually older.

I can very well imagine These old Persian lords and ladies Sitting in their pleasant gardens, Dreaming, dozing, where the shade is; Almond trees a mass of blossom, Roses, roses, red as wine, With the helmets of the tulips Flaming in a martial line, While beside a marble basin, With a fountain gushing forth, Stands a red-legged crane, alighted From the deserts of the North.

So they lived these ancient people, With the happy harmless faces, Dreaming till the purple twilight In their flowery garden-places, Finding every year the sunshine And the wind a little colder, Growing, tho' they hardly guessed it, Very gradually older, Till at last they grew so frail That to their gardens they were carried, Very feeble and exhausted, Weak as babes--But still they tarried,

Lying till the purple twilight Wrapped in wool but hardly warm, Wearing shawls of costliest texture Lest the wind might do them harm, Feeling very faint sensations Of delight in each old breast, Twittering with tiny voices Like young swallows in a nest. Then the young men spoke together As they feasted in the taverns, "It is time to take our Fathers, We must bear them to the Caverns."

In a mountain were the Caverns, Fourteen leagues across the sand, Fourteen leagues across the desert In a naked golden land. Black and bold and bare the mountain Modelled into many shapes, Cones and pyramids and pillars, Beetling cliffs and jutting capes. And within it were the Caverns Tunnelled into every part, Some by ancient Persian devils, Others by a modern art.

Where the terraced lawns lay dreaming, Underneath a cedar-tree Dozed an ancient, ancient person Tiny as a child of three. Every day a gobbling negro To his place the old man carried; Very feeble and exhausted Did he seem--but still he tarried. Then Hasan, the young lord, murmured, As he feasted in the taverns, "It is time to take my Father, I must bear him to the Caverns."

So he took his long-maned pony, Her who wore the silver shoes, Galloped thro' the crowded highways Like one with no time to lose. Purpose in his warning outcry (Was he not the next of kin?) Till he reached his palace gateway, Flung the rein and fled within, Chose with care a wicker basket Very strong and deep and wide, Laying shawls of costliest texture And an eider quilt inside.

Underneath the spreading cedar, In an arbour newly built, Found Hasan his ancient person, Put him underneath the quilt, Mounted then his long-maned pony With the basket on his arm, Carrying it very firmly Lest his father might take harm. Galloped thro' the crowded highway, Passing by the Street of Taverns, Fourteen leagues across the desert Till he came unto the Caverns.

Fastened then his long-maned pony To a ring-post at the mouth (Scores and scores of ring-posts were there Where the Caverns faced the South) Plunged within the long wide gallery Tunnelled 'neath the rocky roof, With a lantern light exploring All the dark which lay aloof, Treading swiftly, treading surely, With the basket on his arm, Carrying it very firmly Lest his father might take harm.

Till he came a byway unto Fashioned from another way, And a niche seen at the summit Of a guiding lantern ray. Lifted then the basket gently, Poised, and placed it in the niche, Saying "Farewell, ancient father, 'Tis the custom" ... after which Bowed his head before his father Thrice, and swiftly turned to go, Knowing that it was the custom, Thinking it was better so.

Suddenly he heard a droning, Like a gnat's small plaintive lay, Somewhere in the dark behind him Where the "Ancient Persons" lay, Heard a little ghostly twitter Like a voice addressing him, Turned and saw his father staring Just above the basket rim, Staring at Hasan, his strong son, With his filmy red-rimmed eyes, "What's ado, Oh! ancient father?" Cried Hasan in great surprise.

"Son," replied the ancient person, "Tho' a miser is disgraced, Even in a wealthy household Monstrous is the crime of waste, Strong and shapely is the basket Much hath held and more will take; If you leave it in the Caverns Won't it be a great mistake? So, for once, let custom perish.... Son, 'tis I, your father, ask it, Lift me out and lay me gently On the rock and ... take our basket."