LXXV*
I tell you this — When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav’n Parwín and Mushtarí* they flung,
In my predestin’d Plot of Dust and Soul
LXXVI*
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my Being — let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LXXVII*
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LXXVIII*
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!