Maktoob

A shell surprised our post one dayAnd killed a comrade at my side.My heart was sick to see the wayHe suffered as he died.

I dug about the place he fell,And found, no bigger than my thumb,A fragment of the splintered shellIn warm aluminum.

I melted it, and made a mould,And poured it in the opening,And worked it, when the cast was cold,Into a shapely ring.

And when my ring was smooth and bright,Holding it on a rounded stick,For seal, I bade a Turco write'Maktoob' in Arabic.

'Maktoob!' "'Tis written!" . . . So they think,These children of the desert, whoFrom its immense expanses drinkSome of its grandeur too.

Within the book of Destiny,Whose leaves are time, whose cover, space,The day when you shall cease to be,The hour, the mode, the place,

Are marked, they say; and you shall notBy taking thought or using witAlter that certain fate one jot,Postpone or conjure it.

Learn to drive fear, then, from your heart.If you must perish, know, O man,'Tis an inevitable partOf the predestined plan.

And, seeing that through the ebon doorOnce only you may pass, and meetOf those that have gone through beforeThe mighty, the elite ----

Guard that not bowed nor blanched with fearYou enter, but serene, erect,As you would wish most to appearTo those you most respect.

So die as though your funeralUshered you through the doors that ledInto a stately banquet hallWhere heroes banqueted;

And it shall all depend thereinWhether you come as slave or lord,If they acclaim you as their kinOr spurn you from their board.

So, when the order comes: "Attack!"And the assaulting wave deploys,And the heart trembles to look backOn life and all its joys;

Or in a ditch that they seem nearTo find, and round your shallow troughDrop the big shells that you can hearComing a half mile off;

When, not to hear, some try to talk,And some to clean their guns, or sing,And some dig deeper in the chalk --I look upon my ring:

And nerves relax that were most tense,And Death comes whistling down unheard,As I consider all the senseHeld in that mystic word.

And it brings, quieting like balmMy heart whose flutterings have ceased,The resignation and the calmAnd wisdom of the East.