O LOVE, I am thy thrall.

As on the tulip’s burning petal glows

A spot yet more intense, of deeper dye,

So in my heart a flower of passion blows;

See the dark stain of its intensity,

Deeper than all.

This is my pride—

That I the rose of all the world have sought,

And, still unwearied in the eager quest,

Fainted nor failed have I, and murmured not;

Thus is my head exalted o’er the rest,

My turban glorified.

O blessèd pain,

O precious grief I keep, and sweet unrest,

Desire that dies not, longing past control!

My heart is torn to pieces in my breast,

And for the shining diamond of the soul

I pine in vain.

Behold the light

That from Thy torch of mercy comes to bless

The garden of my heart, Belovèd One,

With the white radiance of its loveliness,

Till my wall’s shadow shall outvie the sun,

And seem more bright.

I humbly sit apart;

The Kaaba courts the true believers tread,

I dwell outside, nor mix my praise with theirs;

Yet every fibre of my sacred thread

More precious is to God than all their prayers—

He sees the heart.

O Makhfi sorrowing,

Look from the valley of despair and pain;

The breath of love like morning zephyr blows,

Pearls from thine eyelids fall like gentle rain

Upon the garden, summoning the rose,

Calling the spring.