The last sour mule was saddled, On went the caravan. These twain turned on the raddled Handmaidens of the _han_, Blinked, cast them forth with loathing Because the queen was fair, And lest their lack of clothing Should lay man's weakness bare. White as a cloud in summer, Slender as sun-shot rain-- Earth knows what moods become her-- The queen passed.... In her train The Great Confederation Trod with such wealth of _Will_ That, in its trepidation, It never paid its bill. VII THE HEART OF THE SLAVE But as they fared slave Obeidullah failed. Devouring fever shook him like a rat, And ere they reached Kashan his course was run. Then freedom came towards him, and he spoke: "Here is an eye of water, mulberry-trees, A rest-house, and to me a stranger thing, Rest. Caravan be strong, fare on with blessings Whence you must forge your happiness--but I, Possessed of peace, shall never see the end. The heart within me has been fire so long That now my body is smoke. I watch it drift Life leaves me gently as a mistress goes Before her time to meet the uncoloured days, Saying: 'I have lived. Plead not. 'Twill be in vain. You were the end of summer. I have passed Out of the garden with fresh scents and dews Upon me, out ere sunset with cool hands, The supple tread of youth and glorying limbs Firm as resolve, unblemished as my pride; Passed ere a leaf be fallen, or losing fights Begin, that smirch the memory of love....' Sweet is the shade, and death's cool lips are welcome After the burning kisses of the sun, The strained embraces of my owner, Toil. I shall remember her with gratitude But no regret, as I lie here. The dawn Biting the desert-edge shall not disturb me, Nor green oases zigzagged through the heat Like stepping-stones. The many-coloured hills, Heaven's mutable emotions, these are past. Beyond them I shall find security Of tenure in the outstretched hands of God." Thereat his fellows made lament, and urged: "Sleep on and take your rest, but not for ever. Time adds to strength, and you shall rise with us Who wait. Already we foresee the coast. A little while...." Slave Obeidullah raised Himself and looked ahead with shining eyes: "The moon is faint. A dust-cloud swirls. Therein I see dim marching hosts: Strange embassies and dancing girls, Spice-caravans and pilgrims. Ghosts Rise thick from this else fruitless plain, A waste that every season chars. Yet teeming centuries lie slain And trodden in the road to Fars.