“Who truly strives?” they asked.—Then one replied,

“The man who owns no other goal, beside

The throne of God, and till he there arrives

Allows himself no rest, he truly strives.”

Honour each thing for that it once may be,

In bud the rose, in egg the chicken see:

Bright butterfly behold in hideous worm,

And trust that man enfolds an angel form.

Aye let humility thy garment be,

Which never suffer to be drawn from thee,

Although a Chosroes’ mantle in its stead

By Fortune’s hand to thee were offerÈd.

A pebble thrown into the mighty sea

Sinks and disturbs not its tranquillity—

No ocean, but a shallow pool, the man,

Whom every little wrong disquiet can.

He is a friend who, treated as a foe,

Now even more friendly than before doth show:

Who to his brother still remains a shield,

Although a sword for him his brother wield;

Who of the very stones against him cast,

Builds friendship’s altar higher and more fast.

With needle’s point more easily you will

Uproot and quite unfasten a huge hill,

Than from the bosom you will dig up pride;

And the ant’s footfall sooner is descried,

On black earth moving in the darkest night,

Than are pride’s secret movements brought to light.