XIII

LADY that hast my heart within thy hand,

Thou heed'st me not; and if thou turn thine ear

Unto the wise, thou shalt not understand—

Behold the fault is thine, our words were clear.

For all the tumult in my drunken brain

Praise God! who trieth not His slave in vain;

Nor this world nor the next shall make me fear!

My weary heart eternal silence keeps—

I know not who has slipped into my heart;

Though I am silent, one within me weeps.

My soul shall rend the painted veil apart.

Where art thou, Minstrel! touch thy saddest strings

Till clothed in music such as sorrow sings,

My mournful story from thy zither sweeps.

Lo, not at any time I lent mine ear

To hearken to the glories of the earth;

Only thy beauty to mine eyes was dear.

Sleep has forsaken me, and from the birth

Of night till day I weave bright dreams of thee;

Drunk with a hundred nights of revelry,

Where is the tavern that sets forth such cheer!

My heart, sad hermit, stains the cloister floor

With drops of blood, the sweat of anguish dire;

Ah, wash me clean, and o'er my body pour

Love's generous wine! the worshippers of fire

Have bowed them down and magnified my name,

For in my heart there burns a living flame,

Transpiercing Death's impenetrable door.

What instrument through last night's silence rang?

My life into his lay the minstrel wove,

And filled my brain with the sweet song he sang.

It was the proclamation of thy love

That shook the strings of Life's most secret lyre,

And still my breast heaves with last night's desire,

For countless echoes from that music sprang.

And ever, since the time that Hafiz heard

His Lady's voice, as from a rocky hill

Reverberates the softly spoken word,

So echoes of desire his bosom fill.