Is’t strange if beauties’ hearts turn blood through envy of thy cheek most fair? For that which stone to ruby turns is but the radiant sunlight’s glare. Or strange is’t if thine eyelash conquer all the stony-hearted ones? For meet an ebon shaft like that a barb of adamant should bear! Thy cheek’s sun-love hath on the hard, hard hearts of fairy beauties fall’n, And many a steely-eyed one hath received thy bright reflection fair. The casket, thy sweet mouth, doth hold spell-bound the _hūrī_-faced ones all; The virtue of Suleymān’s Ring was that fays thereto fealty sware. Is’t strange if, seeing thee, they rub their faces lowly midst the dust? That down to Adam bowed the angel throng doth the Qur’ān declare! On many and many a heart of stone have fall’n the pangs of love for thee! A fire that lies in stone concealed is thy heart-burning love’s dread glare! Within her ward, with garments rent, on all sides rosy-cheeked ones stray; Fuzūlī, through those radiant hues, that quarter beams a garden fair. _Fuzūlī._ GAZEL From the turning of the Sphere my luck hath seen reverse and woe; Blood I’ve drunk, for from my banquet wine arose and forth did go. With the flame, my burning sighs, I’ve lit the wand’ring wildered heart; I’m a fire, doth not all that which turns about me roasted glow? With thy rubies wine contended--oh! how it hath lost its wits! Need ’tis yon ill-mannered wretch’s company that we forego. Yonder Moon saw not my burning’s flame upon the parting day-- How can e’er the sun about the taper all night burning know? Every eye that all around tears scatters, thinking of thy shaft, Is an oyster-shell that causeth rain-drops into pearls to grow. Forms my sighing’s smoke a cloud that veils the bright cheek of the moon; Ah! that yon fair Moon will ne’er the veil from off her beauty throw! Ne’er hath ceased the rival e’en within her ward to vex me sore; How say they, Fuzūlī, “There’s in Paradise nor grief nor woe”? _Fuzūlī._ MUSEDDES A stately Cypress yesterday her shade threw o’er my head; Her form was heart-ensnaring, heart-delighting her light tread; When speaking, sudden opened she her smiling rubies red, There a pistachio I beheld that drops of candy shed. “This casket can it be a mouth? Ah! deign!” I said; said she: Nay, nay, ’tis balm to cure thy hidden smart; aye, truly thine!” Down o’er her crescents she had pressed the turban she did wear, By which, from many broken hearts, sighs raised she of despair; She loosed her tresses--hid within the cloud her moon so fair, And o’er her visage I beheld the curls of her black hair. “Those curling locks, say, are they then a chain?” I said; said she: That round my cheek, a noose to take thy heart; aye, truly thine!”