After old rags longing hath the figure tall and slight of Love?
Fresh and fresh renews itself aye the brocade fire-bright of Love.
'Gainst the flames from thorns and thistles ne'er a curtain can be wove,
Nor 'neath honor's veil can hide the public shame, the blight of Love.
Through a needle's eye it sometimes vieweth far-off Hindust a n —
Blind anon in its own country is the piercing sight of Love.
It will turn it to a ruin where naught save the owl may dwell,
In a home should chance be set the erring foot of plight of Love.
Will a single spark a hundred thousand homes consume at times:
One to me are both the highest and the lowest site of Love.
Never saw I one who knoweth — O most ignorant am I!
Yet doth each one vainly deem himself a learned wight in Love.
Rent and shattered — laid in ruins — all my caution's fortress vast
Have my evil Fate, my heart's black grain, the rage, the blight of Love.
In its hell alike it tortures Musulm a n and infidel,
" Izzet, is there chance of freedom from its pangs, this plight of love?
Of reality hath made aware the seeker after Truth,
Showing lessons metaphoric, He, the Teacher bright St. Love!