The fire of love I for my idol know
    Within my bosom hides,
As in the mountain ’neath its crust of snow
    The flame abides.

Long have I yearned in vain to kiss her feet,
    I lay my weary head
Down in the dust, that thus my lips may greet
    Where she may tread.

No wealth have I, but like the moth I live: 
    Since love demands a price,
I, like the moth, have but my life to give
    In sacrifice.

How has my bird-like soul been stricken low,
    Pierced to the very heart! 
My love has used instead of bolt and bow
    A deadlier dart.

NASIKH.

XXXVI.

The wound upon my heart glows bright and clear
    With such a steady and unwavering light
That in the darkness I shall have no fear
    And need no lamp to guide my steps aright.

When of the darkness of the grave I hear,
    The night of death, and all the pangs thereof,
I reck not, for one thing alone I fear—­
    The night of separation from my Love.

NASIKH.

XXXVII.

Shall I or shall I not console my heart
    And win relief? 
Or shall I sit in solitude apart
    Nursing my grief?

O hear, while of my life now nearly done
    Some sparks remain! 
Soon I may be, who knows, O Cruel One,
    Speechless with pain.

How can I to the fisher speak my thought? 
    Her snares are set,
My fish-like heart is by her lashes caught,
    As in a net.

Look on my sorrowful mien, O Love, and tell
    My hopelessness,
None of the manifold troubles that befell
    Can I express.

Fair is the garden, Sauda, to thy view,
    More fair appears
Her dwelling; let me all its ways bedew
    With happy tears.

Sauda.

XXXVIII.

I am no singer rapt in ecstasy,
Nor yet a sighing listener am I,
I am the nightingale that used to sing
In joy, but now am mute, remembering.

I know the drop within the ocean hides,
But know not in what place my soul abides: 
I cannot read the hidden mystery—­
Whence came I, whither go I, what am I.

My friends have paid due reverence at my grave,
And held my dust as sacred, for I gave
My humble life to the Beloved’s sword,
Killed by her beauty, martyred by her word.

I deemed life was tranquillity and rest,
I find it but a never-ending quest;
And I, who sat in quietude and peace,
Toil on a journey that shall never cease.

SHAMSHAD.

XXXIX.

Repent not, for repentance is in vain,
    And what is done is done;
What shouldst thou reck of me and all my pain? 
    For what is done is done.