"Many the winds that shake the rose, Many the reeds where the river goes, Many the waves that wrinkle the sea; But only one love for me, for me!"

Over his shoulder the vizir peered. ""T is a happy song, by the prophet's beard! Tell me, rhymer, and quick with the word, Are you not glad as a mated bird?" "No," sighed the poet; "you do me wrong,

For sorrow is ever the nest of song.
Out of the grieving the poet sings:
The rock is cleft, and the bright well
springs."