Contentment
To H. M.
Omar, who ranged the hills, a message sent
To one in ward, with fruitless love forspent:
“Say not, O Friend, that Allah smote thee sore,
Nor wail that Joy will visit thee no more.
Not less our feet are galled with gyves, who tire
When we have climbed the peak of our desire.
Not less his bread is bitter who has found
Love's one cure, love; for yet he hath a wound.
Or sick with hope, or spurred with dull despair,
We weary Heaven with the self-same prayer.
That only which we have not known, we would.
The Son of Wisdom sayeth: Mine is good.”
Omar, who ranged the hills, a message sent
To one in ward, with fruitless love forspent:
“Say not, O Friend, that Allah smote thee sore,
Nor wail that Joy will visit thee no more.
Not less our feet are galled with gyves, who tire
When we have climbed the peak of our desire.
Not less his bread is bitter who has found
Love's one cure, love; for yet he hath a wound.
Or sick with hope, or spurred with dull despair,
We weary Heaven with the self-same prayer.
That only which we have not known, we would.
The Son of Wisdom sayeth: Mine is good.”
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