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A neck-exalting Lord, a Median King,

Heard one in rags, sore-troubled, say this thing

Under the palace-arch—haggard and faint,

Rocking upon the Carpet of Complaint:

"Oh, Sultan! to the door of God goest thou

As I to thine: therefore accomplish now

Mercy towards me, as thou for mercy prayest:

'Make glad my heart!' to Allah so thou sayest,

Therefore, from Sorrow's darkness bring forth mine!"

Now, on that Sultan's thumb a stone did shine,

Pigeon-blood ruby, such a gem the Shroff

Faltered in telling what would weigh enough

In gold tomâns to price it. In the night

It glowed as day had dropped spark of rose-light