Carried thy voice farther than thou could’st dream.
To Isfahan and Baghdad’s Tartar horde,
O’er waste and sea to Yezd and distant Ind;
Yea, to the sun-setting they bore thy word.
Behold we laugh, we warm us at Love’s fire,
We thirst and scarce dare tell what wine we crave,
We lift our voices in Grief’s dark-robed choir;
Sing thou the wisdom joy and sorrow gave!
If my poor rhymes held aught of the heart’s lore,
Fresh wreaths were theirs to lay upon thy grave—