Woo not the world too rashly, for behold,
Beneath the painted silk and broidering,
It is a faithless and inconstant thing.
(Listen to me, Mu'tamid growing old.)

And we- that dreamed youth's blade would never rust,
Hoped wells from the mirage, roses from the sand-
The riddle of the world shall understand
And put on wisdom with the robe of dust.