"Before my lay the riches Of lordly Samarkand, I looked o'er grove and garden, O'er vale and meadow-land. But since my purse was empty, My pocket bare as thread, The rug of joy I folded, From the hall of hope I fled. I had heard in every city Famed scholars oft declare, "Eight are the Paradises, And but one Kawthar there." Here bloom a thousand Edens, A thousand Kawthars foam, But ah me! what avail they, Since I go thirsty home? When hand a dirham lacketh Whilst eye sees all its wish, 'Tis like a head dissevered Within a golden dish."