Oft-times she will not speak to me at all,
Or if she deign to speak, the words that fall
Cold from her haughty lips are words of blame: 
—­I know thee not—­I have not heard thy name!

Deep in my memory was graved the trace
Of all I suffered since I saw thy face;
But now, Beloved, thou hast come to me,
I have erased the record utterly.

With empty hands all mortal men are whirled
Through Death’s grim gate into the other world: 
This is my pride that it is granted me
To carry with me my desire for thee.

They say when I complain of all I bore
—­It is thy kismet, what would’st thou have more? 
My rivals also bear thy tyranny,
Saying—­It is her custom and must be!

Dagh.

XVI.

I met you and the pain of separation was forgot,
And all I should have kept in mind my heart remembered not.

What cruelty and scorn I in your bitter letters knew! 
No love was there; O Gracious One, have you forgotten too?

Strange is the journey that my soul by wanton Love was led,
Two steps were straight and clear, and four forgotten were instead.

There was some blundering o’er my fate at the Great Reckoning;
You have forgot, O Keeper of the Record, many a thing.

You took my heart, but left my life behind:  O see you not
What thing you have remembered, and what thing you have forgot?

To meet Annihilation’s sword is the most happy lot
That man can gain, for all the joys of earth has he forgot.

A Muslim on the path of Love beside a Kafir trod,
And one forgot the Kaaba, one the Temple of his God.

Dagh.

XVII.

What happiness is to the lover left
    Of peace bereft,
What freedom for his captive heart remains
    Held in her chains?

Sometimes unto the mountain peaks he goes
    Driven by his woes,
Sometimes within the barren wilderness
    Hides his distress.

Curses on Love, and may his home disgraced
    Be laid in waste! 
To me the world and all the joys I sought
    Are less than naught.

Gladly, O Executioner, to Death
    I yield my breath;
And only wonder who shall after me
    Thy victim be!

FIGHAN.

XVIII.

If you should meet the Loved One as you stray,
O give my letter secretly to her,
    Then haste away
And do not tell my name, O Messenger.

O Morning Winds that from the garden blow,
Should you meet one like me forlorn and sad,
    On him bestow
The peace and solace I have never had.

O Eyes that weep and weep unsatisfied,
That shed such floods, yet never find relief,
    O stem your tide
Lest you should drown the world in seas of grief.