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SADAKICHI HARTMANN

MY RUBAIYAT

THIRD REVISED EDITION SAN FRANCISCO 1916

To Dunbar Wright, a traveler among Men, who "in his own way courts the sun and fashions Arcadia of passing winds and flying clouds."

INSTEAD OF A PREFACE:

William Marion Reedy, St. Louis Mirror:

I will drop the mask and tell you the secret of my verses. You say they impress you as being uneven and unfinished. I heartily agree with you. As I have stated in my announcement to the public, a poem of the scope and range of "My Rubaiyat" is never complete. No doubt, it will undergo many changes within the next ten years. I say ten years deliberately. You see, I possess the arrogance of conviction. I believe it will survive, simply because it strikes a popular chord, and attempts, no matter how vaguely, to reproduce a broken melody that hums in every mind. Somebody else may venture forth on similar paths and succeed to please even the fastidious in rhyme. "My Rubaiyat" may be put on the back shelves. Well, we will see. I look at my work with objective eyes. It is a mere youngster now. It will grow and nobody will watch its growth with keener appreciation than I myself. The number of verses will not increase, but I sincerely hope that they will gain in clarity and strength as well as in musical and pictorial wealth of expression.

My ambition was to write a simple poem which would appeal to all; to chambermaids as well as cognoscenti, ordinary business men as well as solitary artistic souls. Who will decide whether I have succeeded or failed? Only the public at large. The poem, no doubt, is too didactic for fragile aesthetics who glorify naught but evanescent words, but it is surely no shortcoming to try to express thought. Even exponents of the modern schools attempt this--occasionally. The way of expression is a different matter. It is open to criticism. But excuses that a critic knows nothing about a certain subject, and yet at the same time deliberate pricks at this very thorn in the flesh of his ignorance are sad to contemplate. Rhyme is surely out of date. And the supposed lack of rhythm is merely imaginary. Would you enjoy Japanese or Chinese music? Very likely not and yet they contain as fine a rhythm and as musical a quality as any modern composition. Only they are vaguer, subtle, different.

And on this difference hinges all logical and evasive argument. The practical philosophy contained in "My Rubaiyat," of course, can be attacked for being non-moral or non-religious, but the technique of the poem can be discussed only from one viewpoint.

Sincerely yours,

SADAKICHI HARTMANN.

MY RUBAIYAT

What should we dream, what should we say, On this drear day, in this sad clime! In the garden the asters fade, Smoke of weed-fires blurs the plain, The hours pass with a sullen grace-- Can we be gay when skies are grey!

Would joy prove a more steady guest, In palm-girt, sunnier Southern lands, Some lambient world of green and gold Fanned by the charm of Orient lay! 'Tis vain delusion thus to think That life will change with change of scene.

Man cannot get away from facts-- Alas, stern duty looms supreme, For certain things we must perform, Obey the inward voices' call. Calm joyous days cannot be wooed Unless our conscience is at peace.

Life is to most a weary task, A ceaseless strife for daily bread, We cannot act as we would like, We cannot gain for what we strive. To bear the burden cheerfully Is all this earth allows to us.

Our tired soul with faint forced smile But rarely scales the loftier themes, Fair Hafiz and Anacreon Have they drunk, laughed and sung in vain! Do grove and grange no longer yield The idyls of Theocritus!

Was man once happier than now? Who is there to tell the story Of slaves or Cesars of the past? Still our blood is stirred each spring, Still books and music make us dream, Why mourn the "snows of yesteryear?"

There were ever some more favored Who care-free basked in fortune's sun. The rest did toil. And you and I? We hear the same recurrent rhymes, Like changing seasons, night and day, We simply come, sojourn, and go.

We enter the world unbidden, Plod along roads as we know best. One is born rich, the other poor, Who knows what helps a mortal most. Ere sleep we rub from our eyes We are forever what we are.

The laughter of childhood is gone, The toy castles we built are lost-- Can we redeem in future days The disappointments of the past! Our nursery songs will they change Into jubilant songs of love!

Light-headed youth, all smiles around In dew-drenched gardens of spring morns No heed takes of the dial's stealth. Youth wants to conquer--rule the spheres, While the sun runs his ruthless course And shadows begin to lengthen.

In open woods some summer night, The sound of the wind in the leaves-- Two vagrant lovers hand in hand-- O'er treetops the errant moon. Oh, this mad desire to possess! To waste the soul on blood-red lips.

Sex is a power all cherish, We worship it on bended knees, Like old wine it yields the magic Of oblivion and ecstasies, The moments drift on golden clouds To regions of the white beyond.

Alas, that pleasures never last, That we must leave the fairy woods And pass along the great highway. As much as horizons may beckon, They flee us the more we pursue To distances we ne'er can reach.

The more we give the less we gain-- This is a bitter truth to tell. Yet passion is a fleeting thing As flowers wane in summer's heat, Thus eager kisses, thigh to thigh Turn phantoms with the colder morn.

Why had you, dearest, to leave me! Why must friend from friend depart. Perchance, I shall find the answer Midst howling winds and rain Where sombre forests sway and moan And lightnings stir the darkest lairs.

Few think they can give without gain, They attempt to barter with love. Love comes, it is here, it departs Leaving wet eyes and broken hearts. How when we are young can we guess: Love's winter ne'er returns to spring.

Love is a growth, a wondrous plant That scatters its seed-pods unseen, That sheds rarest unknown delights To those few that worship the dream. For love squanders all its treasures, Why should it ask for a return?

When youth departs, when love grows dim, To grey routine hope dwindles down, Sup well, sit warm, drink deep, sleep sound, Thus run the hours from the glass. New vistas beckon here and there Yet men stay, sullen, where they are.

Oh, to escape from the city, Into the blue, shimmering night, It speaks of all I could have loved, It speaks of all I longed to see, To understand, to own, and feel-- Why did so little come to me!

Ah, my fate is not different, It is like that of all the rest. There grew flowers at the wayside-- They were mine. I did not cull them. There were chances made for blessing When both of us remained unblessed.

Can a being ever be yours? Do you know the thoughts of a friend? Why stray your wishes to strangers When you own a heart that is true? Sunlight passes. The night draws near. Have you been loyal to anyone?

We reap the harvest that we sow. Rich crops may sear in rainless heat Waste over night by wind or frost-- Harsh laws of chance and circumstance! Yet if your seeds were vain as chaff Your own will never come to you.

Let me pass on to the seashore. Watch the traverse of white sails, The seagulls in their spiral flight, The breakers that brighten the waves, And as in rambles of boyhood Fling pebbles out into the sea.

They skip o'er the gleaming surface, They sink and vanish from sight As all that abides on this earth. Yet on the surface like stray thought, Each ripple owns an inner sway And wave-like stirs the azure brine.

The circle widens, travels farther, With each emotion keenly felt Onward it pushes 'cross the waves Of storm-lashed oceans to unbend Its tide of beauty on the shore Of some hope-swept and sun-kissed isle.

And there amidst some rarer air To blossom forth in some great deed-- May it be done by hand or mind-- For the upheaval of the race, To reach some pinnacle of truth Where light envelops you and all.

This is the land where giant minds, Vaster than light, vaster than space Hear whisperings of the infinite, And with proud sorrow in their eyes, Their wild-maned coursers ever ready, Soar far into the skies of thought.

Yet who can follow flights like these, Who plucks the stars from night's blue vault! Imagination, sluggish thing, Will not obey the gayer moods, Our mind can only peer as far As fate has lent it eyes to see.

Men do not think, they merely dream, They only long for crude, rough things, Madly chasing will-o'-the-wisps, Success by force they try to grasp, It lures them on to wilder scenes Where wolves in packs hunt dismal prey.

Why this dull haste, this sordid waste Of youth and manhood's fullest powers? To amass riches for your heirs The highest interests seem low, And no man's pelf does command health, Nor can it hold friendship or love.

So many do as others do, They cannot rise from the green mould With which their thoughts are overgrown. For them no lotus petals blow, They peevish bow to any yoke, And mole-like dig beneath the ground.

Thus people born in low estate Must drag their burden day by day, 'Tis hard to mend what is inborn And slow the lift to higher planes. If drudgery rules from morn to night-- They needs must suffer earthly bane.

They stir the coals, press the bellows-- White iron shimmers in the forge The air is dust, the houses black, Smoke dragons coil 'round culm and stack And belch foul breath into the street. Where is the sun? Has day turned night?

What use to speak to serfs like these Of odors sweet of new-mown hay, Red and blue flowers in the wheat, The old homestead, barns and stables, Cows shambling home the sunset road-- The angelus over harvest fields.

There's joy in labor; so they say, And well that its praises are sung, Or mankind in pale-mouthed despair Would leave factory, forge and shop, Stead living through their daily toil Without a thought that death is near.

Afraid of death men do not think Of their vague meaning on this earth. Blindly they hope for after-bliss Or sneer at things they can not guess, For is not death the cause of all That ever troubled human brains!

Why do we live, why do we hope, Why does this world exist at all! How do we dare to love and mate When every path is strewn with thorns, When children share in our fate And age is glad to greet the night!

And is it endless sleep and night. Deliverance or new keen pain? Hot pitch or stale ambrosia! There are too many gods adored, Can one be right, all others wrong-- Who solves the problem why we are?

There is no answer to the quest, Who knows where we will meet again! The star realms opening at night Tell us of other wonder worlds-- Are they spinning through space for us, Shall we breathe there an ampler air?

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