|The Persian Muse is mirthsome and heart-easing,|
No whetstone for the sword-edge of the self.
Better the song-bird of the dawn be still,
Than by her notes lull flowerland into languor.
What use the patient axe that hews through mountains
Yet leaves Parvez and his proud throne unscathed?
This is an age, Iqbal, for craving flint:
From all glass-wares they show you, turn away.