Book in this poetic form
This page shows only poems in the Ghazal, Qasida, or Qit‘a form.
In the abode of passion, where the dust is fraught with pain, shineth in every atom there pure spirit without stain.
How long the veil of eve and dawn about Thy beauty shall be drawn? Thy cheek display: make whole to me this incomplete epiphany.
The young beloved, the ancient wine, the maids of Paradise; these joys men reckon rare and fine charm not the truly wise.
One by one we count our breath on the narrow road to death; like a raging sea we roar as we walk along the shore.
Qalandars, who to their sway water strive to win and clay, from the monarch tribute bear though the beggar’s robe they wear.
No lament, no sigh I uttered; naught avail laments and sighs; best unspoken, the heart’s sorrow; there be few to sympathize.
A double-handled sword am I laid naked by the circling sky; fortune hath sharpened me in Space, and whetted me upon Time’s face.
Tremulous as the moon-light to our far abode we came; and no man knoweth how we trod this road.
Each atom’s body like a spark I set a quivering, each atom quivers through the dark and soars as on a wing.
Lord, who didst bring the stars to birth, look down upon my scattered earth; the atom doth itself enfold; this boundless wilderness behold.
Ever to be about with men proveth the self doth not attain; to friends be thou a stranger, then, who art familiar with pain.
Like a tulip’s flame I burn in your presence as I turn; by my life, and yours, I swear youth of Persia ever fair!
Soft my breath doth pass soft as April airs; Jasmine-sweet the grass springeth from my tears.
Leave him who never won to sight, and bears report alone; who makes long speech, but the delight of vision gives to none.
It chanced within the desert nigh a caravan was passing by, and presently there reached my ear the leader’s carol, loud and clear.
Fool! Is there then such hope in thee of winning Europe’s sympathy? The falcon grieves not overmuch about the bird that’s in his clutch.
Eschew the West, and do not be bewitched by Europe’s wizardry; not worth barley, in my view, is all her ancient and her new.
A secret ’tis, ’tis evident (Thou sayst) this world of hue and scent: Go, strike thyself upon its wire – Thou art the plectrum, it the lyre.
This brand of grief, His love apart, hath sown a garden in my heart; O desert-flame anemone, I have a word to say to thee!
This is a world that like to it, each boundless is, and infinite;
Spring is come; bright glances dart in the tulip’s bowl of fire; thousand thousand sighs upspire from each several ember’s heart.
The Artist, Whose vast mind both day and night designed, engraving these, displays upon Himself His gaze.
This ancient universe new youth must now rehearse, its trembling blade of grass huge mountains should surpass.
In the mead a tulip blows in whose breast no yearning glows, a narcissus, languid too, yet it lacked the eye to view.
Whence hath this commotion swirled in our old, slow-moving world that each girdled infidel like a reed of grief doth tell?
Tulip in the mountains blowing, lamp in mead and garden glowing, gaze on me, for I will give guidance on the way to live.
I am a slave set free, and Love still leadeth me; Love is my leader still, mind bows to do my will.
Silent rosebud in her heart had a secret, veiled apart, suffered countless aches and woes buffeted by thyme and rose.
I bow down before myself – there is no temple or Ka’bah left! This one is missing in Arabia, that one in other lands.
