Classic Poem

I passed a broken tombstone in a glade;
Thereon seven blossoms of anemone.
Said I, “Who lieth here?” Earth answered me,
“Tread softly. Here a lover waits the call.”
Quoth I, “May Allah help thee, slain of love,
And set thee high in heaven's highest seat.”
Unhappy lovers! Even in their tombs
Amid the living in mean dust they lie.
Fain would I plant this garden all with flowers
And water it with freely flowing tears.