41
Give me the heart whose rapture fine Flames from a draught of its own wine, And take the heart that, self effaced, By alien fancy is embraced.
Give me the heart, give me the heart That of the world will have no part; I yield the heart right gladly o’er That is a slave to less and more.
O draw me forth, Thou huntsman bold, Out of fate’s quiver Thou dost hold; Except the shaft be put to bow, How shall it lay the quarry low?
This life is ne’er a weary thing While there be worlds for conquerring: Behold, one world lies bound and tied— Into another world I ride.
42
A hand of dust is all I own; I scatter it upon the way, Because I hope that on a day It shall ascend to heaven’s throne.
What stratagem have I, what art? For on the branch of wisdom’s tree No thorn has ever sprung for me That I might thrust into my heart.
The fires of separation give A brief effulgence to my flame, And when I would damp down the same, That very breath I no more live.
Let it not vanish from my vein, The wine and drunkenness of love; I suffer none triumph of My heart, to take it back again.
Upon the tablets Thou didst write The argument entire and whole; And now, so discipline my soul That I may read the script aright.
43
Let this heart Thou gavest me Overflow with certainty, And my world beholding glass All its radiance surpass.
Let the bitter potion poured By the heavens in my gourd On this toper’s tongue of mine Taste as sweet as honeyed wine.
44
To passion’s slaves let no man e’er The mystery of Thy love declare: It is not meet for straws to hear Talk of the blazing brazier.
I was to eloquence designed, And Thou hast bid me speak my mind; Such things are in the breast of me As unto none may uttered be.
Deep in my heart’s recesses lies The sweetest song that yearns to rise; Among the leaves my notes shall ring, But in the cage I cannot sing.
‘Tis passing strange, if yearning be Not born to immortality; How can Thy history be said In these few breaths, ere I am dead?
45
Ah, the wine, the lute, the piping, The dear memories of old, When I held the brimming beaker And my friend a bowl of gold.
An’ Thou comest to my bosom, In my autumn spring shall glow; An’ Thou come not, May lies mourning Colder than December’s snow.
Mute my soul, when Thou art absent, Like a harp with broken strings; From my breast, when Thou art with me, Rise melodious whisperings.
Well Thou knowest what conveying Unto passion’s feast I went: Wine in vat, a mead of roses, And a reed bed of lament.
Now renew love’s old dominion, That by virtue of its sway Equal shall the vagrant’s mat be To the royal throne of Kay.
Cry the friends with glad rejoicing That a wanderer is home; Though I trod the paths of knowledge, In my desert still I roam.