Classic Poem

Saidst thou, " Grieve not, for I am thine, and thou art mine, "
Me in truth hast thou waked to life, whether thou treat me fair or foul.
What a lovely torment art thou, without rival is my loved one —
Hadst thou not that one defect, that thy heart is hard as stone?
Were the world made up of beauties, on every side were fair ones;
Still were it astounding such a lovely one as thou shouldst be born!
With so great slaughter art thou indeed not wearied?
What heeds the Executioner, if a thousand lives he takes?
When of thee I beg a Rose, of thy garden of thy border,
If thou grant me but a weed, still I prize it as a Rose.
So long as I thy slave live on, a captive of those locks am I,
In a single hair of which a thousand hearts entangled lie,
Whether they be boys or men, all in search of thee are wandering:
In the city is there no one who is not in love with thee.
Look thou at the Cypress; in a moment it despised is,
When thou movest in the garden with that lovely from and stature.
Happiness is the Paradise to be alike, of Priest and Hermit;
Already from thy face in Khush-hal's grasp is Paradise!