Page:The Sacred Books and Early Literature of the East, Volume 08.djvu/70



The joyous souls who quaff potations deep,

And saints who in the mosques sad vigils keep,

Are lost at sea alike, and find no shore,

One only wakes, all others are asleep.

Not-being's water served to mix my clay,

And on my heart grief's fire doth ever prey,

And blown am I like wind about the world,

And last my crumbling earth is swept away.

Small gains to learning on this earth accrue,

They pluck life's fruitage, learning who eschew;

Take pattern by the fools who learning shun,

And then perchance shall fortune smile on you.

When the fair soul this mansion doth vacate,

Each element assumes its primal state,

And all the silken furniture of life

Is then dismantled by the blows of fate.

These people string their beads of learned lumber,

And tell of Allah stories without number;

Yet never solve the riddle of the skies,

But wag the chin, and get them back to slumber.

These folk are asses, laden with conceit,

And glittering drums, that empty sounds repeat,

And humble slaves are they of name and fame,

Acquire a name, and, lo! they kiss thy feet.