[221] 17

NO soul is that which only warms with wine;

The true soul kindles to this flute of mine.

The cold hearts cling to earth; the living fly

Rapt and uplifted to the shout, “Ya Hai!”

One step beyond the world and its renown

Thy beggar’s cap turns to a kingly crown.

The road is perilous; far and hid from view

The goal. What hand shall lead me safely through?

The bricks are falling from life’s crumbling towers;

Ruin is near, and who shall count the hours?

Though here in India lapped in peace I lie,

Nearer my heart are those sweet bowers of Rai.

Cold, without feast, the long, long night has passed.

Makhfi, hope on. Thy time shall come at last.