Thou tak'st no heed of me,I am as naught to thee; Cruel Beloved, arise!Lovely and languid thou,Sleep still upon thy brow, Dreams in thine eyes.From out thy garment flowsFragrance of many a rose— Airs of delightCaught in the moonlit hoursLying among the flowers Through the long night.Look on my face how pale!Will naught my love avail? Naught my desire?Hold it as gold that isCleansed of impurities Tried in the fire.Pity my heart distrest,Caught by that loveliest Tress of thine hair,So that I fear the shadeEven by thine eyebrows made O'er eyes so fair.ABRU. II.
Thou, Sorrow, wilt keep and wilt cherish the memory of me Long after my death,For thou dwelt at my heart, and my blood nourished thee, Thou wert warmed by my breath.My heart has disgraced me by clamour and wailing for years And tossing in pain,Mine eyes lost their honour by shedding these torrents of tears Like fast-falling rain.O Wind of Disaster, destroy not the home of my heart With the blasts of thine ire,For there I have kindled to burn in a chamber apart My Lamp of Desire.AMIR. III.
Had I control o'er her, the dear Tormentor, Then might I rest;I cannot govern her, nor can I master The heart within my breast.I cast myself upon the ground in anguish Wounded and sore,Yet longed to have two hearts that she might pierce them, That I might suffer more.Utterly from her heart hath she erased me, No marks remain,So there shall be no grave from which my ashes May greet her steps again.O cruel One, when once your glances smote me, Why turn your head?It were more merciful to let their arrows Pierce me and strike me dead.No tomb, Amir, could give my dust oblivion, No rest was there:And when they told her I had died of sorrow, She did not know—nor care.AMIR. IV.
This Life is less than shadows; if thou yearn To know and find the God thou worshippest,From all the varying shows of being turn To that true Life which is unmanifest.Beware, O travellers, dangerous is Life's Way With lures that call, illusion that deceives,For set to snare the voyagers that stray Are fortresses of robbers, lairs of thieves.The seer's eyes look on the cup of wine And say—We need no more thy drunkenness;An exaltation that is more divine, Another inspiration, we possess.O praise not peacock youth; it flits away And leaves us but the ashes of regret,A disappointed heart, a memory, An empty foolish pride that lingers yet....