I boast a love that is not grieved
By being of To Be bereaved,
Whose infidelity doth ne’er
The girdle of existence wear.

If Love shall ever so command,
Let precious life slip from thy hand;
Love is thy one beloved and goal;
There is no gain in life of soul.

The shattering of the idol-shrine
Doth infidelity refine;
It needs Mahmud’s immortal ire
To set the temple-house afire.

In Muslim mosque and church of Christ,
In incensed temple, tavern spiced,
Although a hundred charms were tried
The heart was never satisfied.

Never in bower sweet with scent
I raised a sorrowful lament,
But from the mountain cataract
I learned this music to enact.

Wouldest thou approach me, here apart?
Come cold of breath, and warm of heart;
In thee is movement never calm;
Such verve was not in David’s psalm.

Seek less my faults, but take my bowl
To be the measure of thy soul;
The pleasure of my bitter brew
Is never without spirit’s rue.