غزل شمارهٔ 46

I have never discovered well law’s way, and the wont thereof, but know him an infidel who denieth the power of Love.

The travellers of the Shrine O may God succour and aid, that they may truly divine man’s rank, who of clay was made.

I do not ask of the Way; the Friend is my only quest, for so I have heard men say, ‘The friend, then the way, that’s best!’

Europe’s philosopher so misseth the rapture fine, in the red bowl shines more clear the gleam of the crimson wine.

Better a man were blind, better a thousand wise, than knowledge to have in mind that the seeing heart denies.

Though intellect’s jugglery peculiar joy impart, better than subtlety is the faith of a simple heart.

I have washed my heart’s tablets clean of the learning that charmed my youth, opened my teeming brain with the lancet of utter truth.

Far from the threshold now of the Sultan’s gate I have strayed; no infidel I, to bow to a god who can nothing aid.