That a good communal character derives from discipline according to the manners of the Prophet

A mendicant like Fate inexorable Battered upon our door incessantly;

Enraged, I broke a stave upon his head, And all the harvest of his beggary Spilled from his hand.

In youth’s beginning days The reason thinks not upon right and wrong.

My father, by my temper much distressed, Grew very pale; the tulips of his cheeks Withered;

an anguished sigh sprang from his lip

A star gleamed in his eye, brief glittering Upon his lashes, and then slowly fell.

And as a bird that in the time of Fall Trembles within his nest when dawn blows chill,

So in my flesh shivered my heedless soul; The Layla of my patience now no more Rode peacefully the litter of my heart.

And then my father spoke: “Upon that morn The people of the Best of Messengers Are gathered up before the Lord of All,

Warriors of his Pure Community And guardians of his Wisdom’s loveliness,

Martyrs who proved the Faith – all these like stars Shall shine within that peopled firmament;

Ascetics too, and they that loved their God With anguished hearts, and scholars erudite, And shamefast rebels against God’s commands.

Then in the midst of that great company This suffering beggar’s cries shall mount on high.

O thou condemned to tread an arduous road Unmounted, footsore, what am I to say When this the Prophet asks me:

‘God to thee Committed a young Muslim, and he won No portion of instruction from my school;

What, was this labour too, too hard for thee, So that that heap of clay became not man?”

So gentle was my noble sire’s reproof That I was torn by shame and hope and fear:

“Reflect a little, son, and bring to mind The last great gathering of the Prophet’s fold;

Look once again on my white hairs, and see How now I tremble between fear and hope;

Do not thy father this foul injury, O put him not to shame before his Lord!”

Thou art a bud burst from Muhammad’s branch; Break into bloom before the genial breeze Of his warm Spring;

win thee the scent and hue Of that sweet season; strive to gain for thee Some fragment of his character sublime.

Well said great Rumi, guide in whose shrunk drop An ocean of deep wisdom slumbereth:

“Snap not the thread of thy brief days from him Who was the Seal of Prophets; little trust In thy poor craft and faltering footsteps place.”

The nature of the Muslim through and through Is loving kindness; with both hand and tongue He strives to be a mercy in the world,

As he whose fingers split the moon in twain Embraces in his mercy all mankind.

Thou art no member of our company If from his station thou departest far.

Bird of our garden, one in song and tongue With us,

if thou dost own a melody Carol it not alone, nor let it soar But on a branch that in our garden grows.

Whatever thing has capital of life Dies in an uncongenial element

Art thou a nightingale? Fly in the mead, And with thy fellow-minstrels mediate Thy song.

Art thou an eagle? Do not live At ocean’s bottom; in the solitude Of the unpeopled desert make thy home.

Art thou a star? Shine in thy firmament, Nor set thy foot beyong thy proper bounds.

If thou wilt take a drop of April shower And nurture it within the garden’s close

Till, like the dew of the abounding Spring A rosebud takes it to its near embrace,

Then, in the rays of heaven-glittering dawn Whose magic knots the blossoms on the branch,

Thou shalt draw out the lucent element Within its substance, all the ecstasy Of leaping in its trembling particles.

What is thy jewel? But a watery wave; What is thy effort? Naught save a mirage.

Hurl it to ocean, that it may become A jewel gleaming like a tremulous star.

The April raindrop, banished from the sea, Dies on the cornstalk with the morning dew.

The pure clay of the Muslim is a gem; Its lustre and its radiance derive Out of the Prophet’s ocean.

Come thou, then, Brief April shower, come into his breast, And issue from his mighty sea, a pearl!

Outshine the sun upon this shadowy world, And glow forever in immortal light.