| HOW uselessly and long I struggled hard |
| With thee, mine Enemy, nor from the fight |
| Aught have I won; my trait’rous heart I guard, |
| And turn away for ever from thy sight. |
| What wonder if the fire within me rise |
| Into a flame outleaping fierce and swift, |
| And that the heavy vapour of my sighs |
| Unto the darkened eyes of Heaven should drift! |
| Think not, though at the feast no more I sit, |
| That I have done with joy: there still remains |
| The dream that once was mine—I cherish it, |
| Like wine its memory courses in my veins. |
| What though within this valley of Despair |
| From sorrow I can never find surcease, |
| May I be given, in answer to my prayer, |
| One day at least of rest, one night of peace! |
| So sad my fate that, though I long and toil |
| Until my forces flag and faint and tire, |
| I cannot burnish off the stains that soil, |
| The rust that dims my mirror of desire. |
| Though poor I am indeed, yet weak am I |
| And cannot dare with my irresolute will |
| The purse that holds my treasure to untie, |
| Its golden harvest in my lap to spill. |
| And yet, O Makhfi, if with eyes made clear, |
| Freed from the world’s illusion, thou shalt see, |
| Lo, the faquir’s torn garments shall appear |
| More regal than the robes of majesty. |