If on the last dread Day of Reckoning
I think of you, and in my heart there shine
    The beauty of your face,
God’s Beatific Vision shall be mine.

Once I had friends, now none are left to me;
I see none else but you, because my heart
    Has wholly fled to you,
And thus I walk the ways of Earth apart.

I, Asif, am the chief of sinners held,
This dark dishonour will I not deny,
    But glory in my shame;
Where is another sinner such as I?

Asif.

XIII.

O changing Wheel of Fate, still let there last
Before our eager eyes, still let there burn,
This vision of the world; when we have passed
    There shall be no return.

I thought that, leaving thee, rest would be mine,
My lost tranquillity I might regain,
But separation brings no anodyne,
    And kills me with its pain.

How can I traffic in Love’s busy mart? 
Thou hast won from me more than stores of gold;
That I may bargain, give me back the heart
    Thy cruel fingers hold.

O heart desirous, in Love’s perilous way
Thy journey take and in his paths abide,
And thou mayst find perchance, lest thou should stray,
    Awaiting thee, a guide.

Dagh.

XIV.

    O Weaver of Excuses, what to thee
Are all the promises that thou hast made,
The truth derided, and the faith betrayed,
        And all thy perfidy?

    Sometimes thou sayest—­Come at eventide: 
And when the evening falls, thou sayest—­Dawn
Was when I called thee.  Even when night is gone
        I wait unsatisfied.

    When in thy haughty ear they did commend
Me as the faithfullest of all thy train,
Thou saidst—­I hold such lovers in disdain,
        I scoff at such a friend.

    O Mischief-maker, passing-on thy way
So lovely is thy mien, all creatures must
Cry out—­It is debarred to things of dust
        To walk so winningly.

    Why shouldst thou keep from tyranny anew? 
Why shouldst thou not betray another one? 
What matter if he die?  Thou hast but done
        What thou wast born to do.

    Who cares not for his heart nor for his creed
Is the idolater.  His worthless name
Is Dagh.  O Fair Ones, look upon his shame! 
        He is disgraced indeed.

Dagh.

XV.

Thy love permits not my complaint to rise,
It reaches to my lips, and then it dies. 
Now, helpless heart, I cannot aid thee more,
And thus for thee God’s pity must implore.

Seest thou not how much disgrace and pain
The scornful world has heaped upon us twain,
On thee for beauty and the sins thereof,
On me for this infirmity of love.