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!"
