IN the name of God the most merciful.

Oh lord of beauty, oh life that slays the heart, thy love is king of the two worlds: the world of things is the revelation of love and beauty: the sweetness and the salt of love and beauty: thy beauty makes the eye as it were a garden: thy love makes the heart as it were a feast of lamps: thine is the flush on the cheek of beauty: thine is the burden in the heart of love.

In this old world one spark has made the two lamps* bright: from thee is the scar where the heart was burned: from thee is the lantern that lights the house: visible art thou in the face of the lover: in the lover and in that which is not he: one thousand wise men are made mad by thee: the tents of thy Leila are a thousand:* with my eyes I see thee: without eyes I see thee: oh light of my eyes, where art thou? Every eye is oppressed by the glory of thy might: every heart burns with thy desire.

Like the riders of the desert thy beauty goes forth: on every side it goes forth to plunder: before thy face every gate flies open. He that is sick for love giveth thee his heart: and in exchange thou givest him the fulness of life. Oh life, oh life, glory to him that gave thee! my heart bows before his loving kindness. Thou art the stranger and thou art the friend: and thou art thou. Thou art the lover, thou art the beloved, and thou art thou. To the crooked eye thou art divided: thou art no more one. For here and there, now and then, thy colour changes: thy form is other: now Leili, now Majnun.

From thee is the curve of the beloved's eyebrow: from thee is the drop in the lover's eye: in the slender form of the fair one thy loveliness is made manifest. Thine is the light of the loving glance: thou temperest the edge of the sword of the eye. In the face of the beloved thou kindlest a fire: and, lo, in the heart of him that loves the fire becomes a garden like the fiery furnace of Nimrod.* Thou art the cupbearer, and behold we are drunk with thy wine; thou art the fire and we are burnt in the furnace: from thee is the hue of the rose and the desire of the nightingale: burnt on its bosom the tulip, the bride of the garden, wears thy brand; the narcissus bends its fair head before thee; the iris praises thee with purple lips.

For thy arrow has pierced the heart, and its wounds praise thee. Its wounds are as eyes which look in thy glory. But they look in vain, for in thy light is the brightness of the eyes: and by thy glory we see: yet seeing see not: in thy presence seeing avails not: before thee is no place for speech nor hearing.