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.
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.