FROM the glance Thou bestowed, O Belovèd, flows beauty no words can express;

My life—it were little to offer in thanks for Thy bountifulness.

How shamed were the pious assembly, how grieved in their hearts when they heard

That for love of Thy fluttering tresses the uttermost nations were stirred.

My heart is riven in fragments, ravaged by tears of my grief,

But to one whom Thy lashes have wounded never there cometh relief.

At Thy feet, O haughty Belovèd, I lay down the pride of my brow,

I am near to Thy heart as Thy raiment; why sayest “A stranger art thou”?

O Makhfi, walk boldly like Majnun in the valley of grief undismayed,

Girt round with thy new dedication, the promise of love thou hast made.