The angels, or the prophets, there could find no place.
He said: “I’m he whose eyes swerved not;” no crow, I! See![429]
“The Limner is my love; from juice of vine I’m free.”[430]235
The treasures of “the spheres,” their “animating souls,”
As rubbish were accounted, driven by breeze that rolls.
What, then, would Mekka weigh,—the Persian, Syrian lands,—
That he should covet them, spoil make them for his bands?
Suspicion such as this springs from a jaundiced mind.
It judges by itself;—all, tinged as self must find.
Green spectacles who sets upon his foolish nose,