Classic Poem

Wide wastes of sand stretch far away;
A single palm stands sentinel
Beside the stone rim of a well;
The sky bends down in shades of gray.

Like some sad ghost, with measured pace,
A man plods slowly through the sand,
A pilgrim's staff clasped in his hand,
A hopeless sorrow in his face.

He leans against the lonely tree;
A low wind blowing from the south,
Sweeps o'er the desert's sun-wrought drouth,
With fragrant coolness of the sea.

He bares his head; his weary eyes
Turn upward, full of reverent light:
“Father of all, I own Thy might,
Oh, give me rest!” he sadly cries.

“The sword has brought me gold and fame,
And these have given me kingly state,
Men bow to me and call me great,
And what is greatness but a name?

“I cannot make love bless my lot;
Men show obeisance as they pass,
But in my soul I cry, Alas!
And wish my greatness was forgot.

“Haroun Al Raschid, Caliph grand!
So courtiers say, but not so I,
For like all men, I, too, must die;
Who then will serve? and who command?”

Across the sands a caravan
Wound slowly, till it reached the place:
The merchants gazed upon his face,
And bent before the lonely man.

“O, Caliph grand, the city waits
In sorrow for your swift return;
The people for your presence yearn,
And watchers throng the open gates.

“Cast off your pilgrim gown and hood—
Return to those who pray for you
With souls where love reigns strong and true,
Haroun Al Raschid, Caliph good!”

Along the sands he took his way—
“They love me, then,” he softly said,
“But, ah, one must be lost, or dead,
Ere knowledge brings this perfect day!”