Book in this metre
This page shows only poems in the metre مفاعیلن مفاعیلن مفاعیلن مفاعیلن (هزج مثمن سالم).
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 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.
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.
Of every image that the heart takes from the eye – I have no part; perception weigheth not with me, I beg for pure reality.
Against the light, an infidel, my heart, unfettered, doth rebel; it bows before God’s sanctuary and idols serves, indifferently.
Why in the concourse dost Thou seek the poet’s wild, ecstatic shriek, or lookest for another’s riot, whose heart is troubled and unquiet?
Faith and infidelity fight not for the mind of me; no delights of Paradise do my stricken soul entice.
Beyond heaven’s shuttered dome I have found a way to come where swifter than thought may fly the breath of a morning sigh.
A sinner proud am I; no need I take, except I work for it; I rage, because men say He writ predestinate my wilful deed.
The world had lost its sight and the glass of the heart forsook, but an eye now sees the light that into the heart can look.
None other in this tavern is, Saki, to share my mysteries; am I the first (O who can tell) conceived in heaven, on earth to dwell?
No friend in the world entire thou wilt find sincere in solicitude go, lose thyself in thy self, and mind the honour of loverhood.
If a sight causes loss of self, it is better hidden from view: I do not accept the deal, Your price is too high.
Vision can be won as of morning sun, making this dark clay radiant as day.
Too oft was thy light with strangers to take wine, to suffer others’ light within the bowl to shine.
Give me the heart whose rapture fine flames from a draught of its own wine, and take the heart that, self-effaced, by alien fancy is embraced.
Brighter shall shine men’s clay than angels’ light, one day; earth through our Destiny turn to a starry sky.
A single word sufficeth well the passion of a world to tell: The joy to view thee night to me moved me to this long history.
Ever to be about with men proveth the self doth not attain; to friends be thou a stranger, then, who art familiar with pain.
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.
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.
Spring is come; bright glances dart in the tulip’s bowl of fire; thousand thousand sighs upspire from each several ember’s heart.
