Firdausi by the palace fountain stood

Hard by the Court of Song in quiet mood.

The Sultan smiled to see him. "Thy beard shows

Thee nearer to the cypress than the rose,

"Firdausi. Is thy heart warm and blood cold,

Who singest of love and beauty, being old?"

Firdausi to the fountain turned his eyes,

Grey-mossed and lichened by the centuries.

"What maketh this sweet music, sayest thou?

The water or the stones?" The Sultan's brow

Was overclouded. "Were the water fled,

There were no music certainly," he said.

"The water singing through the garden runs.

Nay, but there is no music in dead stones."

Firdausi bowed: "Allah His grace unfold

Upon the Sultan! Is the water old?"