With A Volume Of Verse.

About the ending of the Ramadán,
When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,
A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,
At the tenth hour to Caliph OMAR came.
"Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last
The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;
Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,
Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!"
"Hast thou no calling, Friend?"--the Caliph said.
"Sir, I make verses for my daily bread."
"Verse!"--answered OMAR. "'Tis a dish, indeed,
Whereof but scantily a man may feed.
Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,--
Verse is a drug not sold in any mart."

I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died;
But this I know--he must have versified,
For, with his race, from better still to worse,
The plague of writing follows like a curse;
And men will scribble though they fail to dine,
Which is the Moral of more Books than mine.

Henry Austin Dobson

Henry Austin Dobson, commonly known as Austin Dobson, was an English poet and essayist. A civil servant by profession, Dobson was one of the most renowned poets and literary critics of the late Victorian and Edwardian periods. His work is noted for its delicate craftsmanship and profound interest in 18th-century literature. Dobson's poetry often revisited and celebrated historical themes and characters, blending scholarly interest with lyrical form.

Henry Austin Dobson

The Water Of Gold.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

For The Avery "Knickerbocker."

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

The Lost Elixir.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

Outward Bound.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Carver And The Caliph.

(We lay our story in the East.
Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least.
We place it there because we fear
To bring its parable too near,
And seem to touch with impious hand
Our dear, confiding native land.)


HAROUN ALRASCHID, in the days
He went about his vagrant ways,
And prowled at eve for good or bad
In lanes and alleys of BAGDAD,
Once found, at edge of the bazaar,
E'en where the poorest workers are,
A Carver.

Fair his work and fine
With mysteries of inlaced design,
And shapes of shut significance
To aught but an anointed glance,--
The dreams and visions that grow plain
In darkened chambers of the brain.

And all day busily he wrought
From dawn to eve, but no one bought;--
Save when some Jew with look askant,
...

Henry Austin Dobson

An Eastern Apologue.

(To E. H. P.)


Melik the Sultán, tired and wan,
Nodded at noon on his diván.

Beside the fountain lingered near
JAMÍL the bard, and the vizier--

Old YÚSUF, sour and hard to please;
Then JAMÍL sang, in words like these.

Slim is Butheina--slim is she
As boughs of the Aráka tree!

"Nay," quoth the other, teeth between,
"Lean, if you will,--I call her lean."

Sweet is Butheina--sweet as wine,
With smiles that like red bubbles shine!

"True,--by the Prophet!" YÚSUF said,
"She makes men wander in the head!"

Dear is Butheina--ah! more dear
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!

"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought,
"Dear ... and yet always to be bought."

So JAMÍL ceased. But still Life's page...

Henry Austin Dobson

Bread, Hashish And Moon.

When the moon is born in the east,
And the white rooftops drift asleep
Under the heaped-up light,
People leave their shops and march forth in groups
To meet the moon
Carrying bread, and a radio, to the mountaintops,
And their narcotics.
There they buy and sell fantasies
And images,
And die, as the moon comes to life.
What does that luminous disc
Do to my homeland?
The land of the prophets,
The land of the simple,
The chewers of tobacco, the dealers in drug?
What does the moon do to us,
That we squander our valor
And live only to beg from Heaven?
What has the heaven
For the lazy and the weak?
When the moon comes to life they are changed to
corpses,
And shake the tombs of the saints,
Hoping to be granted some rice, some childre...

Nizar Qabbani

A Poem Served To Order

Phi Beta Kappa, June 26, 1873

The Caliph ordered up his cook,
And, scowling with a fearful look
That meant, - We stand no gammon, -
"To-morrow, just at two," he said,
"Hassan, our cook, will lose his head,
Or serve us up a salmon."

"Great sire," the trembling chef replied,
"Lord of the Earth and all beside,
Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on
(Look in Eothen,-there you'll find
A list of titles. Never mind;
I have n't time to go on:)

"Great sire," and so forth, thus he spoke,
"Your Highness must intend a joke;
It doesn't stand to reason
For one to order salmon brought,
Unless that fish is sometimes caught,
And also is in season.

"Our luck of late is shocking bad,
In fact, the latest catch we had
(We kept the matter s...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Omar Out Of Date

BY A RENEGADE DISCIPLE


Wake! for Reveillée scatters into flight
The flagging Rearguard of a ruined Night,
And hark! the meagre Champion of the Roost
Has flung a matins to the Throne of Light.

Here, while the first beam smites the sullen Sky,
With silent feet Hajâm comes stealing nigh,
Bearing the Brush, the Vessel, and the Blade,
These sallow cheeks of mine to scarify.

How often, oh, how often have I sworn
Myself myself to shave th' ensuing Morn!
And then - and then comes Guest-night, and Hajâm
Appears unbidden, and is gladly borne.

Come, fill the Cup! The nerve-restoring Ti
Shall woo me with the Leaf of far Bohi;
What matter that to some the Koko makes
Appeal, to some the Cingalese Kofi?

For in a minute Toil, that ever...

John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

The Rupaiyat Of Omar Kal'vin

Now the New Year, reviving last Year's Debt,
The Thoughtful Fisher casteth wide his Net;
So I with begging Dish and ready Tongue
Assail all Men for all that I can get.

Imports indeed are gone with all their Dues,
Lo! Salt a Lever that I dare not use,
Nor may I ask the Tillers in Bengal,
Surely my Kith and Kin will not refuse!

Pay, and I promise by the Dust of Spring,
Retrenchment. If my promises can bring
Comfort, Ye have Them now a thousandfold,
By Allah! I will promise Anything!

Indeed, indeed, Retrenchment oft before
I sore, but did I mean it when I swore?
And then, and then, We wandered to the Hills,
And so the Little Less became Much More.

Whether a Boileaugunge or Babylon,
I know not how the wretched Thing is done,
The I...

Rudyard