A Turkish Tradition.
’Tis said the Turk, when passing down
An Eastern street,
If any scrap of paper chance
His eyes to greet,
Will never look away, like us,
Unheedingly,
Or pass the little fragment thus
Regardless by,
But stop to pick it up because,
Oh, lovely thought!
The name of God may thereupon
Perchance be wrought.
In every human soul remains,
However dim,
Some image of the Deity,
Some trace of Him.
And how can we, then, any scorn
As foul and dark,
That bear, though frail and lowly, still
That holy mark?
And since His impress is upon
All nature seen,
How can we aught disdain as common
Or unclean?
Interior.