|
Yestereven, one keen-witted, Myst'ry-knowing, said to me
|
|
|
|
The Veil of the face of the Soul is The dust of my body base
|
|
|
|
Lo! from this dwelling of exile Homeward if e'er I shall go
|
|
|
|
From of old the love of fair ones Only wont and goal of mine is
|
|
|
|
The Image of thy face to us In every road way-mate is
|
|
|
|
"Thy mouth and thy lip", I asked her, "Me blest when will they make?"
|
|
|
|
Sweet is seclusion, if the Friend In company with me be
|
|
|
|
The Love of a youngling maid In my head grown white hath fallen
|
|
|
|
At dawntide, when the Orient's king His standards on the hill-tops pight
|
|
|
|
In the days of the error-hiding, Transgression-pardoning king
|
|
|