My heart has disgraced me by clamour and wailing for years
    And tossing in pain,
Mine eyes lost their honour by shedding these torrents of tears
    Like fast-falling rain.

O Wind of Disaster, destroy not the home of my heart
    With the blasts of thine ire,
For there I have kindled to burn in a chamber apart
    My Lamp of Desire.

Amir.

III.

Had I control o’er her, the dear Tormentor,
    Then might I rest;
I cannot govern her, nor can I master
    The heart within my breast.

I cast myself upon the ground in anguish
    Wounded and sore,
Yet longed to have two hearts that she might pierce them,
    That I might suffer more.

Utterly from her heart hath she erased me,
    No marks remain,
So there shall be no grave from which my ashes
    May greet her steps again.

O cruel One, when once your glances smote me,
    Why turn your head? 
It were more merciful to let their arrows
    Pierce me and strike me dead.

No tomb, Amir, could give my dust oblivion,
    No rest was there: 
And when they told her I had died of sorrow,
    She did not know—­nor care.

Amir.

IV.

This Life is less than shadows; if thou yearn
    To know and find the God thou worshippest,
From all the varying shows of being turn
    To that true Life which is unmanifest.

Beware, O travellers, dangerous is Life’s Way
    With lures that call, illusion that deceives,
For set to snare the voyagers that stray
    Are fortresses of robbers, lairs of thieves.

The seer’s eyes look on the cup of wine
    And say—­We need no more thy drunkenness;
An exaltation that is more divine,
    Another inspiration, we possess.

O praise not peacock youth; it flits away
    And leaves us but the ashes of regret,
A disappointed heart, a memory,
    An empty foolish pride that lingers yet.

Upon the path, Amir, we journey far,
    Weary the road where mankind wandereth;
O tell me, does it lead through Life’s bazar,
    Or is it the dread gate and house of Death?

Amir.

V.

Here can my heart no longer rest;
    It tells my happy destiny,
Towards Medina lies my quest,
    The Holy Prophet summons me.

I should not marvel if for flight
    Upon my shoulders wings should start,
My body is so gay and light
    With this new gladness in my heart.

My weary patience nears its end;
    Unresting heart, that yearns and loves,
Convey me far to meet my friend
    Within Medina’s garden groves.

My spirit shall not faint nor tire,
    Although by many tender bands
My country holds me, I desire
    The journey through the desert sands.