Book in this metre
This page shows only poems in the metre مفاعلن فعلاتن مفاعلن فعلن (مجتث مثمن مخبون محذوف).
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.
O bring me back the singing, the airs of long ago; bring back the sweet, sad music to set cold hearts aglow.
Thou canst pass, like morning’s breeze, deep into the anemones, with a single breath disclose the locked secrets of the rose.
If you seek a shore in the sea of love, you ask a thousand flames to become one tongue.
Time is the winged messenger of the Heart’s Desire; wondrous herald! Tidings fair is his life entire.
Of the Friend’s ingenuous wit I can relate no more: By my pillow He did sit, and spoke upon the cure!
I am the slave of each living heart whose love is pure, refined; not cloistered monks who dwell apart, their hearts to none resigned.
Drunk with self hood like a wave plunge into the stormy lave; who commanded thee to sit with thy skirts about thy feet?
From life and being’s twisted skein let me be free; in resignation is to gain true liberty.
Greed is acting still his play this world to dominate; what new turbulence, I pray, behind Heaven’s veil doth wait?
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?
Our world is dusty clay trampled upon the way; I do not think our breath returneth out of death.
My mind awhile was gone about the heavens to pace, high on the back of the moon, fast in the stars’ embrace.
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.
In the heart of the birds, that range this garden, is ever change; ‘Tis one with the rose at breast, an other within the nest.
Upon the road of high desire my load yet lieth in the mire, because my heart would still engage with trappings, caravan, and stage.
Whether the world be foul or fair, with a smile fare on; forth from the nest, the cage, the snare, the bower, be gone!
Come! The Asiatic man has created a new plan: Go not, pilgrimage to make to the idol that he brake.
I have never discovered well law’s way, and the wont thereof, but know him an infidel who denieth the power of Love.
What man art thou, and where thy home? In the blue skies the stars have opened, to see thee come, a thousand eyes!
In the abode of passion, where the dust is fraught with pain, shineth in every atom there pure spirit without stain.
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.
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.
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.
