If mortal man may meet it and o’ercome.” 
With sad dissenting mien, and solemn voice,
That trembled ’neath its burden, thus spake he,—­
“Full many of the good and bold have come
From every land the pilgrim-sun looks on,
All thirsting for this water golden bright;
These darkening eyes have seen them all pass on,
But ne’er a one return; and I am old. 
Hear then, poor youth, and turn while yet you may;
A mid-day’s journey hence a mountain stands,
Rugged and bare as outcast poverty,
With many a gap and chasm yawning wide,
With many a rock to drive the climber back;
And, far above, the summit hides in clouds,—­
There springs the Golden Water through the rock
Brighter than sunlight in a summer noon;
But as the weary seeker toils aloft,
Rude voices rush upon him, loud and shrill,
Now far, now near, but all with anger fraught,
Rough menace, insult, and hoarse mockery;
Whereat the wondering climber, turning back,
In fury, or in fear, to meet the foe
Shouting loud threats e’en in his very ear,
Stands face to face with Death, and sinks transform’d
Into cold stone, ’mongst myriads more that lie,
And all day fright him with their dreary stare. 
Ay! he that setteth forth upon this quest,
And looketh ever back for friend or foe,
For cruel laughter, or for mocking jeers,
Turns straight to stone like all beside his path;
But once upon the summit, at his feet
Flows the pure Golden Water, bright and clear.”

“This frights me not, O Father; for meseems
He is unworthy who should turn aside
For any mocking voice of man or maid;
Then tell me quick the way, that I may on;
Mine eyes look only forward, and mine ears
Hear only the far flowing of the spring. 
Two brothers there lie lock’d in stony sleep,—­
I go to wake them on the mountain’s side.” 
The Dervise laid his forehead in the dust,
“Allah go with thee, since it must be so! 
Take thou this ebon bowl, and cast it down;
The ball will roll before thee swift and sure,
Until it stop beneath the mountain’s side;
There stop thou; and, dismounting, leave thy steed,
And climb the fearful hill; but oh! beware
Thy glance turn never backward on the way! 
Above, the golden fountain bubbles clear,
Whose water, sprinkled o’er these dead black stones,
Will wake the sleepers from their chilly sleep.”

With lips compress’d she took the ebon bowl,
And cast it on before the startled steed;
Swiftly it roll’d, and swiftly follow’d she;
The road all desolate—­no shade of tree,
No living thing about the dreary waste;
No sound but of her courser’s clanging hoofs,
His shaking tassels, and his measured breath;
Afar, the mountain black against the sky. 
Still onward roll’d the ball, until the sun
Stood midway in the heavens, a fiery red,
Looking through clouds with half his glory quench’d;