To the Artists

Sun, moon and Jupiter shine their hour; Your self burns on, fed by Love’s power.

Your creed knows nothing of race or hue: No credit in white or black, or blue!

Where selfhood droops, doubts fight ding-dong; Where it blooms—a world of verse and song!

If your soul rot under slavery’s blight, Your art an idolater’s soulless rite;

If sense of your own greatness sway you, Legions of men and Jinn obey you!