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Before my lay the riches
Of lordly Samarkand,
I looked o'er grove and garden,
O'er vale and meadow-land.
But since my purse was empty,
My pocket bare as thread,
The rug of joy I folded,
From the hall of hope I fled.
I had heard in every city
Famed scholars oft declare,
"Eight are the Paradises,
And but one Kawthar there."
Here bloom a thousand Edens,
A thousand Kawthars foam,
But ah me! what avail they,
Since I go thirsty home?
When hand a dirham lacketh
Whilst eye sees all its wish,
'Tis like a head dissevered
Within a golden dish. (en) |
