Good ‘Ā’isha, the gem of honour’s casket wide, Then asked the Prophet (who’s of both the worlds the Pride): 160 “O thou who of all creatures every essence art, What was the reason rain this day has played its part? Was it a rain of mercy, such as sometimes falls; Or was it as a menace justice fitly calls? Was it a vernal rain, dispensing benefits; Or was it an autumnal shower, to dig grave pits?” He answered: “’Twas a sprinkle, sent to soothe our care,— That fruit inherited by all who Adam share. Should man remain exposed for long to care’s fierce flame, ’Twould work him wrack and ruin, crush his mortal frame.“ 165 The world would go to ruin in a little while; Man’s greed would get the upper hand, did he not smile. The prop of this wide world is heedlessness, my son; And thoughtfulness on earth below’s a curse, when won. For thoughtfulness belongs unto the upper world; Triumphant here below, all’s soon to ruin hurled. This thoughtfulness a sun is; greed’s a mass of ice. This thoughtfulness is water; greed, the filth of vice. So from the upper world scant tricklings are sent down, That greed and envy may not ruin every town. 170 If those scant tricklings were to prove a copious rill, Defects and talents both would cease our soil to till. Let’s leave these moralisings; they would have no end. So go we back to seek the minstrel, our old friend. That minstrel’s talent had been rare; the world he’d charmed. At sound of his sweet voice, imagination ’d swarmed. Each heart, birdlike, began to flutter in its cage; Surprise enchained men’s minds when his notes threw the gage. But now he was grown old; long years he’d passed on earth. Like falcon chasing gnats, he’d little cause for mirth. 175 His back was double bent, like belly of wine-jar; His brows above his eyes with crupper-straps on par. His voice, the former joy of all who might it hear, Was now cracked, out of tune, uncouth, none could it bear. His tones, that might have made dame Venus mad with rage,[273] Were now like donkey’s brayings in his sinking age. What is there beautiful that goes not to decay? Where is the roof that will not ruin be one day? Unless it be the words of saint[274] from God; they’ll last ’Till echoes of his voice shall sound in judgment blast. 180 He is the inner joy that glads our inner man; The source from whom our beings rose when time began. He is the amber draws the motes of thought and speech; He gave the means to measure revelation’s reach.