In vain therefore, with wistful eyes
Gazing up hither, the poor man,
Who loiters by the high-heaped booths,
Below there, in the Registàn,—
Says, "Happy he who lodges there!
With silken raiment, store of rice,
And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,
Grape-sirup, squares of colored ice,—
"With cherries served in drifts of snow."
In vain hath a king power to build
Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques;
And to make orchard-closes, filled
With curious fruit-trees brought from far,
With cisterns for the winter-rain,
And, in the desert, spacious inns
In divers places,—if that pain
Is not more lightened, which he feels,
If his will be not satisfied;
And that it be not, from all time
The law is planted, to abide.
Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man!
Thou wast athirst; and didst not see,
That, though we take what we desire,
We must not snatch it eagerly.
And I have meat and drink at will,
And rooms of treasures, not a few.
But I am sick, nor heed I these;
And what I would, I cannot do.
