061

Fool! Is there then such hope in thee Of winning Europe’s sympathy? The falcon grieves not overmuch About the bird that’s in his clutch.

Shame on thee, only to desire Rubies bequeathed thee by thy sire! Is there not one delight alone— To win thee rubies from the stone.

Speak not about the world to me, If it be not or if it be; I only know that I am I, The world illusion let go by.

Trembles each tavern glass with fear Because the officer is here, Except one lover’s bowl doth make The very stones with dread to shake.

Sayst thou that veiled the selfhood is? Say on; but let me tell thee this— Tear not this veil into a shred; Narrow’s the vision in the head.

The ancient bough, beneath whose shade Thy little sprouting wings were laid, Were it into shame to move at last Thy nest, when all its leaves are cast?

Call that a song, which Nature brings To serve as music for her strings; What use is in the minstrelsy That all with Nature doth agree?

062

Eschew the West, and do not be Bewitched by Europe’s wizardry; Not worth a barley, in my view, Is all her ancient and her new.

Mighty Darius, Iskandar, Khusrau and Kaikobad—all are A blade of grass upon the way Swept by a passing wind, today.

Life is the self to beautify, To guard the self right jealously; Upon a caravan thou art— Fare on with all, but go apart!

Radiant thou camest from the sky, Far brighter than the sun on high; So live, that every mote may be Illumined by thy brilliancy.

Thou hast not spared thy precious ring Idly to Ahriman to fling— To pledge the which it were not well Even to trusty Gabriel.

The tavern is ashamed, because So narrow is become our glass; A beaker take, and prudently Drink wine—and then be off with thee!

063

A secret ’tis, ’tis evident (Thou sayst) this world of hue and scent: Go, strike thyself upon its wire— Thou art the plectrum, it the lyre.

The gaze disclosed in ecstasy Trembles to view its purity, And yet thou sayst it is a veil. A covering, a thing unreal!

Pull down the pole of the immense That struts heaven’s cerulean tents, For like a spark it naked lies Before the contemplative eyes.

High Paradise is not so fair As this clay garment that I wear; Within this sanctuary of mine Is holy fire, and joy divine.

I lose myself a little time, I lose awhile the great sublime, The twain discovering presently— O miracle, O mystery!

064

This brand of grief, His love apart, Hath sown a garden in my heart; O desert flame anemone, I have a word to say to thee!

Best in the wilderness, alone, To breathe the soul consuming groan; Yet what can I, condemned for good To wrestle with the multitude?

065

When the tulip’s heart I viewed With the gaze of certitude, All I saw was ecstasy, Sighs, and sobbing bitterly.

In the highest and the least Is life’s quiver manifest; Over plain and hill and dell Ever leaps this wild gazelle.

Life is not of us alone, Life is not for us to own; Life is everywhere to see— Ah, and whence came life to be?