Book in this poetic form
This page shows only poems in the Ghazal, Qasida, or Qit‘a form.
Tumultuous Love where’er it rove unto Thy street is brought; what boasteth he who findeth Thee that for himself he sought?
Rise up, for Adam’s hour of manifestation has come; the stars bow down before this handful of dust.
The ardent longing in our hearts – where does it come from? Ours is the tumbler, but the wine within – where does it come from?
Moon and star, travelling together on the road of desire, are measuring graces and understanding gestures and are possessed of insight.
Thou canst pass, like morning’s breeze, deep into the anemones, with a single breath disclose the locked secrets of the rose.
Thou who didst make more ardent my sighing and my tears, O let my anthem quicken dust of a thousand years.
If you seek a shore in the sea of love, you ask a thousand flames to become one tongue.
From my handful of dust You draw out a hundred laments; you are nearer than the soul – for all Your shy reserve.
Time is the winged messenger of the Heart’s Desire; wondrous herald! Tidings fair is his life entire.
Though dust, and dark as dust, am I, I have a little heart, whereby with vision open as a star I gaze on beauty from afar.
Of the Friend’s ingenuous wit I can relate no more: By my pillow He did sit, and spoke upon the cure!
With a song of agony, with a sweet, soft melody, to a dying world athirst Lo: life’s flagon I have burst.
On faith and infidelity O scatter wide Thy Clemency; at last the veil of darkness raise from the full splendour of Thy Face.
I am the slave of each living heart whose love is pure, refined; not cloistered monks who dwell apart, their hearts to none resigned.
A flame is in my minstrelsy, a fearlessness, a tragedy; a spark is smouldering in my corn, and sprightly blows the breath of morn.
The tulip of this meadowland is yet all flecked with hue; cast not the shield out of thy hand, for battle flares anew.
The eyes and heart that I have take such delight in view – what is my fault if I should carve idols out of rough stone?
Faith depends on arguments and on magic eloquence; yet anon men serve the Lord with the lance and fearless sword.
Though the falcon of the brain yearneth on the wing to be, archers in this desert plain wait upon him secretly!
Drunk with self hood like a wave plunge into the stormy lave; who commanded thee to sit with thy skirts about thy feet?
Out of Hijaz and the lonely plain the Guide of the Time is come, back from the far, far vale again the Caravan hastens home.
It is the season of the spring and nightingales are carolling; O smile on me, and chant a song, and freely pass the wine along.
Of the Sultan I would take one gaze, if so I may; Muslim I; I do not make a god of clay.
From life and being’s twisted skein let me be free; in resignation is to gain true liberty.
Like the dervish drunken be quaff the winecup instantly, and, when thou art bolder grown, hurl thyself on Jamshid’s throne.
Rise! And upon the thirsty land sprinkle life’s wine with lavish hand; kindle anew the spirit’s fire, and bid the flame in us expire.
Greed is acting still his play this world to dominate; what new turbulence, I pray, behind Heaven’s veil doth wait?
Thinkest Thou that to the threshold I have made this pilgrimage? With the master of the household I have business to engage.
Although the Angel dwells beyond the talisman of the skies, yet on this hand of dust in fond affection rest his eyes.
With a glance at us who sit by the way He goes riding by: Conceive, if Thou canst, my soul’s dismay sore distraught am I.
Where is the Arab, to revive the old night-revelry, and where the Persian, to bring alive the love-lute’s minstrelsy?
Better is the robbers’ train than the heaven-pacing brain, better one distress of heart than all Plato’s learned art.
Intellect is passion too, and it knows the joy to view, but the poor unfortunate dares not as the inebriate.
Our world is dusty clay trampled upon the way; I do not think our breath returneth out of death.
All that in life I love the best is the sweet fever of Thy quest; the way is like an adder’s sting, be not to thee my wayfaring.
Sleeper, rise thou up, and fast! Once again upon the past and the future fix thy gaze; Thou must think on other ways.
The night grows late, the route is up, no need for saki now or cup; pass me Thy goblet, friend of mine, I’ll pour thee the remaining wine.
My mind awhile was gone about the heavens to pace, high on the back of the moon, fast in the stars’ embrace.
Saki, on my heart bestow liquid flame with living glow; let the resurrection day dawn tremendous on my clay.
A melody swept me through and through and nobody knew; the air and the note is all they know: The high and low.
The juice that maketh tulips spring within the heart – a bumper bring, Saki! And let the April gust scatter at will my body’s dust.
No Jamshid’s memory, the wine that fioweth in this inn of mine, it is the pressing of my soul that sparkleth in my Persian bowl.
Of every image that the heart takes from the eye – I have no part; perception weigheth not with me, I beg for pure reality.
I am a blossom of the plain; carry me back from the avenue to mountain and wilderness again where air’s to breathe, and the vast to view.
