English

Thou, upon whose lip the salt-right Hath my wounded heart, with me
Look thou keep the pact of friendship; For I go; and God with thee,

Thou pure soul, for whose well-being, In the spiritual world,
Prayer the sum is and the purport Of the angels' psalmody!

If thou doubt of my sincereness, Put me to the proof. By nought
Like the touchstone, folk the fineness Of pure gold avail to see.

Thou didst say, “I will be drunken And will give thee kisses twain.”
Past the limit is; but neither Two nor one beheld have we.

Art thou a friend well-willing? True to the given plight be;
Fellow of bath and closet, Rosegarth and day and night be.

Into the breeze's clutches Give not thy wildered tresses;
Unto the hearts of lovers, “Wildered,” say not, “outright be!”

If with the prophet Khizr Thou wouldst be fellow-sitter,
Still, as thou wert Life's water, Hid from Sikender's sight be.

Not for each bird that flieth Is it Love's psalms to warble.
Come; of this songful bulbul Rose the new-blown and bright be.

They gather lilies down the stream,
A net of willows drooping low
Hides boat from boat; and to and fro
Sweet whispered confidences seem
'Mid laughing trills to flow.

In the green deeps a shaft of gold
Limns their elaborate attire;
Through silken sleeves the winds aspire,
Embalmed, to stray, and, growing bold,
Swell them to their desire.

But who are these, the cavaliers
That gleam along the river-side?
By three, by five they prance with pride
Beyond the willow-line that sheers
Over the trellised tide.

O Lord, let not Thy heart forget me.
Thou knowest all my inmost thoughts, whatever I do.
Thou hast carried to safety all the sinners, of whom this world was full.
This grief it is that slays me, that thou hast given me no part with them
Again and again through many births have I wandered, but at last have fallen at Thy feet.
At this hour why dost thou withdraw. Thine arm from me? The tear of this is my death.
I am a sinner, Thou the rescuer of sinners: why then dost thou desert me?
Even if thou countest not Sur, a sinner, yet for Thine own sake save me.

Chance to me, at dawn, of drinking Beakers twain of wine hath fallen;
From the skinker's lip the liquor, Trickling down, on mine hath fallen.

To the Bride of Youth returning I, for drunkenness, desired;
But 'twixt her and me divorcement Sans recall, in fine, hath fallen.

From that tipsy eye a corner Fain would I have sought; but, 'las!
Lack on me of strength to sever From her eyebrows' shrine hath fallen.

Claim the good-news-gift, dream-teller; For, in morning's sugar-sleep,

My youth was spent amidst the simple charms
Of country scenes—secure from worldly din,
And then, alas! I fell into the net
Of public life, and struggled long therein.

The captive bird laments its forest home;
The fish in tanks think of the sea's broad strands;
And I oft longed, amidst official cares,
To till a settler's plot in sunny lands.

And now I have my plot of fifteen ‘mow’,
With house thereon of rustic build and thatch;
The elm and willow cast a grateful shade,

Oh, the Rover of Chao with his Tartar-fashioned cap,
A scimitar on his side, gleaming bright like the snow,
The silver saddle glittering on his white horse,
Behold, he comes and is gone like a shooting star;

Kills a man at every ten paces as he goes,
And goes he a thousand miles without stopping.
The deed done, he shakes his raiment and departs—
None knows whither, nor even his name.

He stops at leisure and drinks with Prince Hsin-ling,
Laying his drawn sword across his knee;
Picks up a piece of roast meat for Chu-hai to eat;

The roof of my house has been blown away
By the fiercest of Autumn winds to-day;
It was merely of grass and branches built—
Yet my only shelter save a wadded quilt.

Across the river it scurried and whirled,
In tangled tufts, by the hurricane hurled,
Ascending in gusts till caught by the trees,
Or falling in ponds and on furrowed leas.

In great delight the village urchins shout,
And say I'm old and cannot run about;
And now before my face the rogues begin
To steal things, and then run away and grin.

And in the Métro—the Paris subway—
They have the prettiest verbal nicety:
They call Rush Hours
Les Heures d' Affluence.

Oh! skylark for whose carolling
The livelong day sufficeth not!