To my self alone I bow;
Temple, shrine are vanished now,
Calls not shrine in Arab land,
Nor in Persia temples stand.

In the tulip and the rose
Shines not sheen, nor pigment glows:
In the anthem of the bird
Neither high nor low is heard.

In the workshop of the sky
No new plan do I descry;
Haply no new plans remain
Hid in pre-existence’ brain.

Heaven’s stars stand unpossessed
All of revolution’s zest
Night and day, as it may be,
Have no more the power to flee.

In no stage they take repose,
And no quest is left to those
Earthy creatures, from whose hearts
Haply every breath departs.

Either in contingency
No fresh leaves unwritten be,
Or Fate’s pen hath not the might
Any more fresh fates to write.