O MIGHT I have as surma for mine eyes

The dust that on her happy threshold lies,

And there might waiting kneel to kiss at last

Her feet like those of angels fluttering past!

My soul has girt around it suffering

And wears it as the garment that a king

Gives to his servant, decking him with pride.

O Enemy that waitest by my side,

How long shall I be bent beneath thy rod,

And walk the path of pain my friends have trod?

The storm sweeps round my house, its ramparts fail,

Its deep foundations sway before the gale.

I am a bird, who, flying home to rest,

Finds that the waters have o’erwhelmed his nest.

Sell not the jewel of thy soul so cheap,

No friends can help thy heart its wealth to keep.

O King of all the roses, be thou kind

Unto the bulbul, whose unquiet mind

Makes him a mad faquir in loving thee;

For even kings who ride in majesty

Will stop their chariots e’er a faquir stir.

Blessèd is Makhfi: God has given to her

The pearl of words, jewel of song divine,

Fairer than spoils of ocean or of mine.