There cried the Dreamer: "Who are you that mock Exiles in search of that from which they came, Intent to know themselves and so the Lord Whose ways are as the number of men's souls? By these we compass our escape from Self, The mirage in the waste through which we pass Across the bridge Phantasmal to the Real; Until, forgetting Self, we see in All The Loved that leads us to the eternal beauty Shown in a thousand mirrors yet but one. These are the Sufi tenets. What of you?" From the first tree the quavering voice replied: "It is my double, Peder Sag, The summit of the civilized Above such heats as woman or flag. It is my double, Peder Sag, Who bows the poet to the wag, The hero to the undersized. It is my double, Peder Sag, The summit of the civilized. "His mission is to educate By atrophy, the cure for spasm, And so to serve the future state. His mission is to educate A world of fellowships that hate One living thing--enthusiasm. His mission is to educate By atrophy, the cure for spasm. "He dresses us in faultless drab. His colour-scheme for you is tan, And, level as a marble slab, He dresses us in faultless drab. Him urchins call Abu Kilab: The Father-of-the-Modern-Man. He dresses us in faultless drab. His colour-scheme for you is tan. "My double did a deal for truth. He teaches balance to the Young, And knows a better thing than youth. My double did a deal for truth, His emblem is the wisdom tooth, A flowery and fruitless tongue. My double did a deal for truth. He teaches balance to the Young." Serdar-i-Jang impatient pulled his beard And growling Tous his bridle: "Let him be The fool I was, and so mine enemy From whom I part in peace." Farid Bahadur Shrugged that: "Our wares are not for such as these." Once more the Brain: "I might have come with you, Leaving my gloomy castle in the air, For, overgrown with tangles, in its flank Lies hid the thrice-veiled door of happiness; Only--my double has mislaid the key." Seyid Rida laughed and answered: "We have found it." The Lover knocked: "'Tis I!" The Loved One made reply: "There is no room for two Beyond the Gateway." In solitude he learned The Secret; so returned Saying: "O Love, 'tis you." And entered straightway. A wicket opened gently of itself, And so a sceptic joined the caravan. XVII THE PRIDE OF THE TAILOR Oh, sliding down the desert from Shiraz The tailor-man from Meshed tore his hose: A crowning test, a broken man! "Ah, was I born that fate might practise fancy-blows?