A flame is in my minstrelsy,
A fearlessness, a tragedy;
A spark is smouldering in my corn,
And sprightly blows the breath of morn.
Love keeps no state, no manner grand.
And yet an axe is in Loves hand
Wherewith the mountains heart is hued
All innocent of Parviz blood.
It pricked my heart, this subtlety
An orator once told to me:
The loved ones glance hath more to teach
Than all the wizardry of speech.
Come to my pillow once again;
Sit for one moment; for the pain
Of separation wracks my soul,
My cup of loneliness is full.
Awhile into the mead I came,
Naked my anguished spirits flame;
The breeze of morning fiercer blew,
My heart was sprinkled oer with dew.
The secret sign will overset
The lovers shrine entire; and yet
It is the fearless glance I need
That makes the lovers heart to bleed.
Waters the seat of both, and clay;
What is the mystery then, I pray.
The mind doth like the clay right well,
But there the heart is loth to dwell?
Behold, and see! in Indias domain
Thou shalt not find the like again,
That, though a Brahmans son I be,
Tabriz and Rum stand wide to me.