The fine science thou dost learn
After vision does not yearn;
‘Tis no wanderer far astray,
But a straggler on the way.

He whose all-embracing brain
A new universe doth plan
Burneth still with passion’s fire,
Never lacketh high desire.

Though Love made the moon to err
On the road a wayfarer,
Never blazeth in its breast
The vast furnace of unrest.

So His beauty doth entrance,
I can never lift my glance
From His Face, who heedlessly
Doth not a glance spare for me.

See, Iqbal in manly clothes
To his worldly labour goes;
Proving that his dervishood
Ne’er depends on gown and hood.