To his place the old man carried; 

 Very feeble and exhausted 

 Did he seem—but still he tarried. 

 Then Hasan, the young lord, murmured, 

 As he feasted in the taverns, 

 "It is time to take my Father, 

 I must bear him to the Caverns." 

 So he took his long-maned pony, 

 Her who wore the silver shoes, 

 Galloped thro' the crowded highways 

 Like one with no time to lose. 

 Purpose in his warning outcry 

 (Was he not the next of kin?) 

 Till he reached his palace gateway, 

 Flung the rein and fled within, 

 Chose with care a wicker basket 

 Very strong and deep and wide, 

 Laying shawls of costliest texture 

 And an eider quilt inside. 

 Underneath the spreading cedar, 

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