Lest haply thereupon the awful name
Of mighty Allah should by chance be writ.
We smile at the vain dread; but blind and dull
The soul that only smiles, and cannot see
A thought of perfect beauty folded in
The zealot’s reverent fear, as in some free
And flaunting flower-cup may be hived and held
One drop of precious honey for the bee.
Small wind-blown things there are, which any day
Float by in air or on our pathway lie,