I saw a Moslem work upon his shroud alone,
With earnest care, even as the silk-worms weave their own.
In his illness it always near his bedside lay,
And he wrote Koran-verses on it night and day.
When with that sacred script it was filled from side to side,
He wrapt it round his body, and in calmness died.
In that protecting robe, now buried in the ground,
Still may he know the peace he in its writing found!
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