Consuming fire for thee,
O Lord, Is a gift I will not barter;
I will not change my vassal’s rank
With that of a master of men.

Neither this world nor the next
Is fit for the freedom—loving;
They are forced to die in this,
And forced to live in the other.

Thy tantalizing reticence
Inflames my passion more;
Concealment is an elixir
For those who are lost in love.

The austere eagle lives in peace
On hills and in wilderneeses,
It never doth demean its pride
By building an abode for itself.

Who taught to young Isma’il
The ways of filial obedience?
Was it the blessing of a glance,
Or the miracle of tutelage?

My grave is like a shrine
For men of thought and courage,.
For I have revealed truths sublime
To mere specks of dust.

The beauty of meaning need riot be
Adorned by my craft,
For nature does herself
Incarnadine the rose.