066

This is a world, that like to it, Each boundless is, and infinite,

An image each, a fantasy, A smoke wave from the torch in me.

Two moments this and that endure, I only everlasting, sure;

That of but little worth, as this, My self the sole true coin is.

Here to abide, and there to dwell, Both here and there a little spell;

What is my labour, here and there? The lamentation of despair!

This world and that my path waylay, In this and that is loss my pay;

Each my brief nest and dwelling place— Both let me kindle, and both raze!

067

Spring is come; bright glances dart In the tulip’s bowl of fire; Thousand thousand sighs upspire From each several ember’s heart.

Pour a stoup of ruby glow O’er the garden’s dusty bed; Strange and shy, in autumn’s dread, Tulip and narcissus grow.

Hue and scent world fills thine eyes; What the heart is, knowest thou? ’Tis a moon, that round its brow Casts a halo of the skies.

068

The Artist, Whose vast mind Both day and night designed, Engraving these, displays Upon Himself His gaze.

Sufi! Step out before Thy dim and dusty store; Nature has merchandise To offer—at what price!

Down, and the stars and moon, Nightfall, the sun at noon— All these unveiled the eye For but one glance may buy!

069

This ancient universe New youth must now rehearse, Its trembling blade of grass Huge mountains should surpass.

The handful of poor clay That did a glance display All viewing, in the brain Must shape a cry of pain.

Our aged moon and sun The course have never run; Fresh stars we must pursue To build the world anew.

Each image of delight That dawns upon my sight Is fair; yet fairer still The image that I will.

God said, “The world so lies, And say not otherwise”; Said Adam, “So I see; But thus it ought to be!”

070

In the mead a tulip blows In whose breast no yearning glows, A narcissus, languid too, Yet it lacked the eye to view.

Billowing breath was in the clay, But no heart did it display; Caravan upon the road— Such was life, yet where the load?

Time itself was void and free Of the topers’ song of glee, Wine was in the glass aflame Yet was none to quaff the same.

Sinai’s lightning made complaint That desire was dumb and faint; In the peaceful valley there Silent was the voice of prayer.

Love upon our woe exprest Builds anew the great unrest, Else no murmur ever stirs From these silent banqueters.