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Poem	Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel, Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword, Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord, Even less than these! Less than the weed, that grows beside thy door, Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee, Less than the need thou hast in life of me. Even less am I. Since I, O Lord, am nothing unto thee, See here thy Sword, I make it keen and bright, Love's last reward, Death, comes to me to-night, Farewell, Zahir-u-din.
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