Three Songs

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives,
When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,
Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,
But never will be sung to us again,
Is thy remembrance.  Now the hour of rest
Hath come to thee.  Sleep, darling; it is best.

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read
A book wherein the poet said:-- 

"Where are the kings, and where the rest
Of those who once the world possessed? 

"They're gone with all their pomp and show,
They're gone the way that thou shalt go. 

"O thou who choosest for thy share
The world, and what the world calls fair, 

"Take all that it can give or lend,
But know that death is at the end!" 

Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head:
Tears fell upon the page he read.