|Laden with pearls departed from the presence-hall of God|
That cloud that makes the pulse of life stir in the rose-bud's vein
And on its way saw Paradise, and trembled with desire
That on such exquisite abode it might descend in rain.
A voice sounded from Paradise: “They wait for you afar,
Kabul and Ghazni and Herat, and their new-springing grass;
Scatter the tear from Nadir's eye on the poppy's burning scar,
That never more may be put out the poppy's glowing fire!”