006

Of the Friend’s ingenuous wit I can relate no more: By my pillow he did sit, And spake upon the cure!

Though the tongue is bold enough, The argument right fair, What can I declare of Love, Save that none can declare?

Happy he, who dared to reach Deep into Being’s brain And drew forth like jewels speech, And fluent spoke again.

Desolate with joy am I That, recognizing me, In reproach He whispered, sly, “Poor, homeless vagrant, see!”

Grieve not, that this world of ours Its secret still conceals; What is speechless to the flowers, The birds’ lament reveals.

Passion’s message, that anew I tell unfeignedly, To the tulip spake the dew, But spake in secrecy.

If my speech is all distraught, What wonder were in this? Of His tresses who speaks aught, His tale distressful is.

007

Mind, that is ever questing, And finding, without resting, Fired by the joy of viewing Was vision still pursuing.

Seek thou pure revelation Past sun and moon’s low station, For all things here reported By vision are distorted.

008

I am the slave of each living heart Whose love is pure, refined, Not cloistered monks who dwell apart, Their hearts to none resigned.

With such a heart as knows the hue, Yet from all hue is free, In mosque, and inn, and temple, too, The touchstone sure they be.

Beyond the moon and Pleiades Their gaze is lifted high, The Milky Way contents not these For them to nest thereby.

Within the multitude are they, Yet out of it withal; In spirit’s solitude they stay, While dwelling amid all.

Regard not meanly, nor despise The truly loving man; Though little worth, ’tis merchandise Fit for Life’s caravan.

The charter of their liberty Is writ for slaves to keep; And now the Shaykh and Brahman be Shepherds without their sheep.

Take thou the goblet in thy hold; Wine lawful is, they tell Although the tale be strange, ’tis told By speakers credible.

009

The tulip of this meadowland Is yet all flecked with hue; Cast not the shield out of thy hand, For battle flares anew.

A tumult, in whose swelling breast Two hundred tumults wait That maiden is, who dwells caressed In Europe’s cradle yet.

O thou who sittest at thy ease Beside the shore, arise! The whirlpool roars across the seas, The shark in menace lies.

No part of wisdom ’tis, I trow, The trusty axe to shun; Within the rock’s heart, even now, Are rubies to be won.

Await! and I will raise the veil, That other songs may thrill; What should I of such music tell The lute concealeth still?

When the world’s wondrous Artist viewed The madness in my brain, He cried, “Too mighty swells thy mood, This ruin to contain!“

010

Faith depends on arguments And on magic eloquence; Yet anon men serve the Lord With the lance and fearless sword.

Oft the dervish robes conceal Underneath a coat of steel; Lovers, slaves to passion’s mood, With such armour are endued.

When the world too old is grown, It is burnt and overthrown, Then its water and its clay Men for new foundation lay.

Stored and cherished capital, For one glance they yield it all: What a people these, who take Profit of the loss they make!

What upon a blade of grass Ether borne they bring to pass, ’Ttis not strange that they can prove, Ponderous mountain chains to move.

Love is as a merchandise; In Life’s marketplace it lies, Now at little price is sold, And anon for mighty gold.

I have sung lamentingly Out of sleep to waken thee, Else is Love a labour done Sighlessly, without a groan.