Mayhap my sorrowful heart
Did not deserve thou shouldst bestow on me
Thy priceless love, but neither did it merit
Thy cruel tyranny.
She lighly laughed—And so is Mazhar dead?
Alas, poor helpless one! I knew not I
What was his trouble.—Then again she said
—I did not think him ill enough to die.
If I behold her, I am mad,
And if I see her not, I die;
O Love, to tender hearts like mine
Thou art a great calamity.
I ask for Allah's pardon, if I dare
To weigh and criticise what He hath done;
But when He made thy beauty shining fair,
What need was there for Him to make the Sun?
In spring, O Bulbul, go not in thy grief
To seek the garden, wandering apart;
But wait—one day within thy very heart
It shall arise, in bud and bloom and leaf.
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