  Where the road leads from Delhi to the South, And dingy camel-trains creep in the dust Past ruin-heaps of old Firozabad And Indropat unpitied of the drouth; By a lone tree, above a Pool whose sad Prayer-water all the turban-people trust, Is a heat-hidden tomb, and on it just A few faint blades of bent and grieving grass. "Jehanara's it is," with ready mouth A Moslem tells the stranger, "once she said, 'The covering of the poor is only grass, Let it be mine alone when I am dead.'" And who has stood there, where about her Rest Rise high Imperial tombs, knows hers is best. |
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