Poem XXII

1Quoth some one, ‘Master Sanā’ī is dead.’The death of such a master is no little thing.

2He was not chaff which flew on the wind,He was not water which froze in winter.

3He was not a comb which was broken with an hair,He was not a seed which the earth crushed.

4He was a treasure of gold in this dust-pit,For he valued the two worlds at a barley-corn.

5The earthly frame he flung to the earth,Soul and intellect he bore to heaven.

6The pure elixir mingled with the wine-dregsCame to the jar’s surface, and the lees settled apart.

7The second soul which the vulgar know notI protest by God that he surrendered to the Beloved.

8In travel, dear friend, there meet togetherThe native of Marv and of Rai, the Roman and the Kurd.