TO Thee, first,

From the clouds of Whose mercy is born

The rose of my garden, I look!

Let the praise of Thy love the beginning adorn

Of the verse of my book.

Athirst

For Thy love are my body and soul;

Like Mansur the grains of this clod,

My body, cry out—They are parts, Thou the whole,

Themselves they are God.

The waves

Of Thy deluge of love o’er the boat

Of mortality roll;

No Noah could lift from the deeps till it float

My love-drownèd soul.

As slaves

The powers of the darkness for me

Will obedient fly;

If a word of my praise be accepted by Thee,

Like Suleiman I.

And now

No more do the ready tears start

As laments from my tongue,

For like pearls the blood-drops that are drawn from my heart

On my lashes are hung.

Bear thou,

O Makhfi, with patience thy pain,

It is endless, and leave thou the night

Of thy passions; for then shall not Khizr attain

Such a spring of delight.