  The good that one man flings aside That in his discontent and pride He treads on, and rejects no less. Out of his count of happiness, Another wiser, even from this Would build an edifice of bliss, For whose fair shelter he would pay Glad offerings of praise alway. This truth a Sage had need to learn— This we may by his aid discern Who once, reduced to last distress, Was culling a few herbs to dress, With these his hunger to allay; And flinging, as he went his way, The coarse and outer leaves aside, With rising discontent he cried, “I marvel if at all there be A wretch so destitute as me The wide world over.”—This he said, And turning (not by chance) his head, Behind him saw another sage, Whom a like office did engage, Who followed with weak steps behind, Seeking, like him, a meal to find, But who, with anxious quest and pain, To gather up the leaves was fain, By him rejected with disdain. Nor other lesson he would teach, The Poet in his Persian speech, Who tells how through the desert he Was toiling once, how painfully! While his unsandalled naked feet Were scorched and blistered by the heat Of fiery sands—and harsh and hard He did his destiny regard; And evil thoughts did in him stir, That he, a faithful worshipper, A pilgrim to God’s holy fane, Should such necessities sustain. Nor did a better mood succeed, With glad endurance of his need, Nor saw he what of sin was pent In murmuring heart and malcontent, Till entering a low chapel, there One prostrate on his face in prayer He marked, and unto him espied |
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