O Thou, whose memory quickens lovers' souls, Whose fount of joy renews the lover's tongue, Thy shadow falls across the world, and they Bow down to it; and of the rich in beauty Thou art the riches that make lovers mad. Not till Thy secret beauty through the cheek Of Laila smite does she inflame Majnún, And not till Thou have sugar'd Shírín's lip The hearts of those two lovers fill with blood. For lov'd and lover are not but by Thee, Nor beauty; mortal beauty but the veil Thy heavenly hides behind, and from itself Feeds, and our hearts yearn after as a bride That glances past us veil'd--but even so As none the beauty from the veil may know. How long wilt Thou continue thus the world To cozen with the phantom of a veil From which Thou only peepest?--Time it is To unfold Thy perfect beauty. I would be Thy lover, and Thine only--I, mine eyes Seal'd in the light of Thee to all but Thee, Yea, in the revelation of Thyself Self-lost, and conscience-quit of good and evil. Thou movest under all the forms of truth, Under the forms of all created things; Look whence I will, still nothing I discern But Thee in all the universe. "MAN'S PRIME DESIRE" O thou whose wisdom is the rule of kings-- (Glory to God who gave it!)--answer me: Is any blessing better than a son? Man's prime desire; by which his name and he Shall live beyond himself; by whom his eyes Shine living, and his dust with roses blows; A foot for thee to stand on he shall be, A hand to stop thy falling; in his youth Thou shalt be young, and in his strength be strong; Sharp shall he be in battle as a sword, A cloud of arrows on the enemy's head; His voice shall cheer his friends to better plight, And turn the foeman's glory into flight. LUST Lust that makes blind the reason; lust that makes A devil's self seem angel to our eyes; A cataract that, carrying havoc with it, Confounds the prosperous house; a road of mire Where whoso falls he rises not again; A wine of which whoever tastes shall see Redemption's face no more--one little sip Of that delicious and unlawful drink, Making crave much, and hanging round the palate Till it become a ring to lead thee by (Putting the rope in a vain woman's hand), Till thou thyself go down the Way of Nothing. THE BABY DARLING