IF from the spot upon my heart the veil

Should fall, and all the world should know my tale,

How would the roses burn with envious light

Knowing themselves less bright!

Though all the day the leaping fire of sighs

May from my fast-consuming heart arise,

Winds of mischance so blow and scatter it,

My torch is not yet lit.

I leave the world, and to the woods I fly,

But in the forest hunted still am I;

I seek the silence of the lake and hill,

But Love pursues me still.

The malady of Love has turned my brain,

For all my life I have abode with pain;

Then why should I from sorrow seek to flee?

Sorrow is kin to me.

Here in the dwelling of unhappiness,

My silent, desolate sorrow I possess;

For how can shining love with me remain

Within this house of pain?

Behold the pages of my book of life!

Blotted its record, black with sin and strife,

As if the woe of all the world should be

Ever pursuing me.

O Makhfi, from this goblet thou shalt gain

No exaltation, no surcease from pain;

For tears of blood that flow from eyes grown dim

Fill it unto the brim.