Moti, wise as lovely, pondered,
"'Mong the sunbeams I have wandered,
With the flowers friendship made;
Sweetest blossoms wither,

But alike they fade,
Roses die together,
Beauteous death is made.

Comrades e'en in death are flowers,
Always sweet are friendship's bowers.

Lightly sorrow touches twain,
Only solitude is pain."

* * * * *

Mild were the utterings of the cooing dove,
Who did approve
In myrtle ambuscade this tender lore;
The constant plashing of the fountain spray
Melted in easy numbers, dying away
A quiet cadence, while for evermore
Faded the eve in richest livery wove
Of Tyrian dyes and amber woof t'allure
The soft salaam of slowly sinking day.

Stars shone, and Atmâ said, "'Tis well to be,
The things of earth are painted pleasantly."