DOWN in the dust and sunken in disgrace

My honour lies for all the world to see,

But why should I bear shame upon my face?

What is the honour of the world to me?

Although the times on my unhappy head

Have heaped the burdens I can hardly bear,

I have not wept; I smile in pride instead;

Upon my brow are graved no lines of care.

For many years hath sorrow dwelt with me,

Yet I repine not, and so fiercely wage

My war against despair, it turns to flee—

I am the Rustum of this later age.

Though callous Fate upon me vengeance wreak,

O breezes blowing from the heavens above

Bring unto me what I, like Yaqub, seek—

The perfume of the garments of my Love.