Mine ardent heart turned, when Dakíkí fell,
Spontaneously toward the Íránian throne;
“If I can get the book I will retell,”
I said, “the tales in language of mine own.”
I asked of persons more than I can say,
For I was fearful as time passed away
That life would not suffice, but that I too
Should leave the work for other hands to do.
There was besides a dearth of patronage
For such a work; there was no purchaser.
It was a time of war, a straitened age
For those who had petitions to prefer.
Much time elapsed. I still concealed from all
My secret purpose, for I could not see
One who was worthy to partake with me
This enterprise. What in this world can be
More excellent than noble words? Men call
Down blessings on them, men both great and small.
Good words had God vouchsafed not to provide,
How had the Prophet ever been our guide?

I had a dear friend in the city, thou
Hadst said: “They twain have but one skin.” One day
He said: “I like thy scheme; pursue thy way;
Thy feet are in the right direction now.
I undertake for my part to procure
This ancient Persian book; but be not slack.
Of youth and eloquence thou hast a store,
Thy speech possesseth too the ancient smack.
The stories of our kings afresh relate,
And raise thy reputation with the great.”
He brought the volume to me and anon
The darkness of my gloomy soul was gone.