Out of our dust thou stirrest
What sighings of despair!
Nearer art thou than spirit,
Yet minglest all too rare.

Upon the dawn’s wind billows
Secretly thou dost come
Amid the roses’ fragrance,
And all the garden’s bloom.

Yet in the West none knows thee,
The East all fable is:
‘Tis time within this world, then,
To grave new images!

Who wills that all the nations
Before his might should yield,
With Changez lance to pierce him
His frenzy shall be stilled.

I am a slave unfettered,
And freedom I might gain
Were not this twisted ringlet
About my neck, a chain.

I know naught else but weeping
Men call the poet’s art,
And what is this thou sprinklest
Like dew upon my heart?