|Slow fire of longing—wealth beyond compare;|
I will not change my prayer-mat for Heaven’s chair!
|Ill fits this world of Your freemen, ill the next:|
Death’s hard yoke frets them here, life’s hard yoke there.
|Close veils inflame the loiterer in Love’s lane;|
Your long reluctance fans my passion’s flare.
|The hawk lives out his days in rocks and desert,|
Tame nest-twig-carrying his proud claws forswear.
|Was it book-lesson, or father’s glance, that taught|
The son of Abraham what son should bear?
|Bold hearts, firm souls, come pilgrim to my tomb;|
I taught poor dust to tower hill-high in air.
|Truth has no need of me for tiring-maid;|
To stain the tulip red is Nature’s care.
Translated by: V.G. Kiernan