Though I’m far now from the shadow of thy love, O Cypress straight, Still my prayers I may offer for thy happiness of state. Think at times upon thy servant ‘Ārif sitting desolate; Him from near thy skirt of kindness taken hath his darksome fate. Thou art gone, and longing for thee makes my heart to mourn indeed; Without thee, banquets where friends meet, all I have forsworn indeed. _’Ārif._ GAZEL The realm of patience thou’st laid waste, Helāgū hight art thou, Paynim? O mercy! thou’st the world consumed, a blazing light art thou, Paynim? A maiden’s grace, is that thy grace, a conquering hero’s voice, thy voice; Thou Woe, I know not, maid or youthful lord of might art thou, Paynim? What mean those hidden, secret sighs, and tears, and saddest grievings, pray? The wailing lover of some wanton gay and bright, art thou, Paynim? Why on the polished mirror dost thou thus so frequent cast thine eyes? Bewildered and distraught at thine own beauty’s sight art thou, Paynim? I’ve heard that poor Nedīm hath been by cruel Paynim captive ta’en-- That fierce oppressor of the Faith, and foe of right, art thou, Paynim? _Nedīm._ GAZEL O heart! e’en though thou tell’st thy woes, yon maid will ne’er compassion deign: When constancy and troth thou seek’st, dost thou address the barren plain? The student of the course of tyranny is yonder wanton wild; To look for faith or grace from her who enmity desires is vain. That paynim glance doth hold in hand a dagger sharp of point and keen; And yet, O babe, my heart, thou dost to thousands sing her praises’ strain. In hope that it would yield the soul a breath of favor’s odor sweet, How yonder rosebud-mouth effaceth all, thou dost thereto explain. O Sabqatī, what wondrous science hath thy magic talent learnt, That thou right royally inditest every joyous, glad refrain? _Sabqatī._ GAZEL A rose-leaf o’er the spikenard fall’n--the red fez lies on her dark hair; The perspiration studs her cheeks--the dew-drops which the roses wear. Since mirrored in th’ o’erflowing bowl did yon cup-bearer’s chin beam bright, My eyes were fixed upon that wine, like bubbles which that wine did bear. Behold thou, then, her braided locks, as musk, all dark and sweet perfumed; Like ambergris, her tresses shed abroad an odor rich and rare. Those who set forth on Mystic Path behind soon leave the earth-born love; The Bridge, as home, within this world of ours, no man hath taken e’er. Now, O Belīg, that steed, thy reed, doth caracole across this page; Thy finger-points, the Hayder bold whom that Duldul doth onward bear. _Belīg._ ON A DANCING-GIRL