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 Take heed these go not weeping. Allah's throne

Shakes to the sigh the orphan breathes alone.

With kindness wipe the tear-drop from his eye,

Cleanse him from dust of his calamity!

There was a merchant, who, upon his way—

Meeting one fatherless and lamed—did stay

To draw the thorn which pricked his foot; and passed:

And 'twas forgot: and the man died at last:

But in a dream the Prince of Khojand spies

That man again, walking in Paradise;

Walking and talking in the Blessed Land,

And what he said the Prince could understand:

For he said this: plucking the heavenly posies,

"Ajâb! that one Thorn made me many Roses!"