Th' internal Senses painted here we see:
They're born in others, but they live in thee.
O were our Author with thy Converse blest,
Could he behold the Virtues of thy Breast;
His needless Labours with Contempt he'd view;
And bid the World not read — but copy you!

Hobbling about and full fourscore,
Old man, what are you laughing for?
Is it because you've a joke on us
That you and death don't care to discuss?

NIGHT-LONG she gave me, of her eyes
And lips, sweet wine. Her fingers struck
The lute-strings in such skilful wise
They scattered notes that angels pluck
From their gold instruments; the cup
She gave was wine of Paradise,
And the moon was up.

I HOLD thee ever in my heart; absent, Mu'tamid prays
T hat endless as his tearful nights may be thy pleasant days.
I mpatient of the bridle, 'tis but thy small hands may guide me;
M y desire is all a longing till I see thee stand beside me,
A h, love of mine, the days increase, forget not Ibn Abbad.
D ear name, I trace it on my heart for ever — Itimad .

You asked me yesterday what moment seemed
Most beautiful of all our love-hours sweet;
— Beloved, it was when kneeling at your feet
One summer's eve, you looked at me and smiled,
While in your cherished face there softly gleamed
The tenderness of a mother for her child.

As one who faring o'er a desert plain
Sees fountains clear in the mirage arise,
And, parched, longs the nectar sweet to gain
Which still before him flies —
So, wistfully, half doubting, half-believing,
Scornful of hope — yet hopeful, self-deceiving,
I thirst for love, which wastes before my eyes.

Playfully the moonbeams
O'er the waves did wander;
Hero o'er the Hellespont
Was watching for Leander!
Winds, let the waves pass —
Let the waves pass by;
Give them not a tear-drop,
Nor swell them with a sigh!

SWEET IS THE BIRTH OF LOVE

Sweet is the birth of love, and the awaking,
The bashful dream, the faltering desire,
The vision fair — of all fair things partaking —
The wonder, the communicable fire:
Sweet is the need to give and to obtain, —
And sweet love's pain!

The women all are witless! " thus he cried:
" I've said it often, and I say 't again. "
" I'm quite of your opinion, " she replied:
" The Almighty made 'em fools to match the men . "

" This world's the worst conceivable! " he said.
But, O philosopher, pray tell me where
You found your plummet, — good, — the measuring lead
With which you sound the depths of your despair?