Haroun Al Raschid

WIDE wastes of sand stretch far away;
A single palm stands sentinel
Beside the stone rim of a well;
The sky bends down in shades of gray.

Like some sad ghost, with measured pace,
A man comes slowly o’er the sand;
A pilgrim’s staff clasped in his hand,
A hopeless sorrow in his face.

He leans against the lonely tree;
A low wind, blowing from the South,
Sweeps o’er the desert’s sun-wrought drouth
With fragrant coolness of the sea.

He hares his head; his weary eyes
Turn upward, full of reverent light:
“ Father of all, I own thy might;
Oh, give me rest!” he sadly cries.

“ The sword has brought me gold and fame,
And these have given me kingly state;
Men bow to me and call me great,
And what is greatness but a name?

“ I cannot make love bless my lot;
Men show obeisance as they pass;
But in my soul I cry, Alas!
And wish my greatness was forgot.

“ Haroun Al Raschid, Caliph grand!
So courtiers say, but not so I;
For like all men, I, too, must die.
Who then will serve, and who command? ”

Across the sands a caravan
Wound slowly, till it reached the place.
The merchants gazed upon his face,
And bent before the lonely man.

“ O Caliph grand, the city waits
In sorrow for your swift return;
The people for your presence yearn,
And watchers throng the open gates.

“ Cast off your pilgrim gown and hood:
Return to those who pray for you
With souls where love reigns strong and true,
Haroun Al Raschid, Caliph good!”

Along the sands he took his way.
“ They love me, then,” he softly said;
“ But, oh, one must be lost, or dead,
Ere knowledge brings this perfect day!”