Maktoob

A poem by Alan Seeger (1888-1916)

A shell surprised our post one day

And killed a comrade at my side.

My heart was sick to see the way

He suffered as he died.

I dug about the place he fell,

And found, no bigger than my thumb,

A fragment of the splintered shell

In 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, who

From its immense expanses drink

Some 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 not

By taking thought or using wit

Alter 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 part

Of the predestined plan.

And, seeing that through the ebon door

Once only you may pass, and meet

Of those that have gone through before

The mighty, the elite — —

Guard that not bowed nor blanched with fear

You enter, but serene, erect,

As you would wish most to appear

To those you most respect.

So die as though your funeral

Ushered you through the doors that led

Into a stately banquet hall

Where heroes banqueted;

And it shall all depend therein

Whether you come as slave or lord,

If they acclaim you as their kin

Or spurn you from their board.

So, when the order comes: “Attack!”

And the assaulting wave deploys,

And the heart trembles to look back

On life and all its joys;

Or in a ditch that they seem near

To find, and round your shallow trough

Drop the big shells that you can hear

Coming 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 sense

Held in that mystic word.

And it brings, quieting like balm

My heart whose flutterings have ceased,

The resignation and the calm

And wisdom of the East.

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Poems in English 

• Aubade by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• A Lover’s Complaint by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• A Fairy Song by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 128: How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 148: O me! what eyes hath love put in my head by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 146: Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 145: Those lips that Love’s own hand did make by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 144: Two loves I have, of comfort and despair by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 143: Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 142: Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 141: In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 140: Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 13: O, that you were your self! But, love, you are by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 137: Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 136: If thy soul check thee that I come so near by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 135: Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare
• Sonnet 134: So, now I have confessed that he is thine by William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare

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