If sorrow never claimed our heart,
And every wish were granted,
Patience would die and hope depart—
Life would be disenchanted.
———
A pilgrim, bound to Mecca, quite away his sandals wore,
And on the desert's blistering sand his feet grew very sore.
"To let me suffer thus, great Allah, is not kind nor just,
While in thine service I confront the painful heat and dust."
He murmured in complaining tone; and in this temper came