غزل شمارهٔ 52

The young beloved, the ancient wine, the maids of Paradise; these joys men reckon rare and fine charm not the truly wise.

Whate’er eternal thou dost deem, mountain, and sea, and shore, land, plain, whate’er assured doth seem, these pass, and are no more.

The learning of the Westerner, the East’s philosophy; all is an idol-house of prayer – and idols nothing be!

Cross not this desert terrified; fix on thy self thy thought; thou only art, and all beside, yea, all the world, is naught!

Upon this way mine eyelashes have quarried out of stone, nor stage nor caravan there is, and shifting sands are none.