In Praise of a Noble Lord

You proud one, before whom even the brave sun bows, whose steed is the swift storm of the heavens. In fear of you it wields the sword all day; in dread of you it rolls in the dust all night. The heavens make themselves a shield like a teacher's rod, for the sky's arrow, if left undisciplined, would strike. The sea sinks hollow from the blow of your wrath; the sky arches high beneath the weight of your bounty. With one grip your resolve can snap the tip of Mars's lance in the very heart of Scorpio. When your pen writes, it fills the Preserved Tablet with hope; reason, like a pupil's pen, is worn down at school before you. For the decree of your life, fate filled these vials of ink with day and night. From the horseshoes of your steed, sharp as claws, the mangy sky keeps scratching at its own body. The sky finds nearness at your court, yet even then no one is as close to you as I, your servant. The age looks black in my eyes, for I am left small and distant, like a star in the height. Like an arrow strained on the bowstring by cries of praise; like a blade left feverish from the wounds of tongues. Just as you seek out from cultured people the one still new and slender as a crescent moon, so out of kindness call now and then upon the servant whose claims on you are old. For men of experience know that the tried one, in every case, is better than the untried. They set what should come first behind and what was last ahead; that is why my affairs fell out of order. Though the lip came first and the teeth came after, look, Lord, how strange this state has turned out. All the teeth stand in ranks within, while I, worn out, am left outside at the door like the lip. Since I saw that at your presence no praiser is welcome unless he is refined, though I am not refined, I have given myself this one title to bear. I submit to any name and title assigned, so long as it brings me near to you. But this servant is not made for such work, if choosing a creed is also a condition. My only remedy today is patience, until this wavering sky turns another way. Yet the brick that once falls from its mold fits back into it only with great difficulty.