[196] 14

IN beauty’s realm Thou sitt’st the crownèd lord;

The fair ones kiss Thy feet. Thy locks no hand

May reach to,—all too high uplifted stand

The bases of Thy throne. Those tresses poured

About Thy moonlike face have all adored,

Muslim and pagan, every sect and creed.

Should the less beautiful pay beauty’s meed

Such tribute Joseph’s self must fain accord.

Is not my heart already bound to Thee,

Hence with it from the body? Calm the fears

Of innocence; kindle the lamp that cheers,

And not the blood-red torch of tyranny.

See, Makhfi, from the tempest of my tears

My breast is heaving like a stormy sea.