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 Love’s hand
Wherewith the mountain’s heart is hued
All innocent of Parviz’ blood.

It pricked my heart, this subtlety
An orator once told to me:
‘The loved one’s 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 spirit’s flame;
The breeze of morning fiercer blew,
My heart was sprinkled o’er with dew.

The secret sign will overset
The lover’s shrine entire; and yet
It is the fearless glance I need
That makes the lovers’ heart to bleed.

Water’s 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 India’s domain
Thou shalt not find the like again,
That, though a Brahman’s son I be,
Tabriz and Rum stand wide to me.