غزل شمارهٔ 39

Vision can be won as of morning sun, making this dark clay radiant as day.

Let thy vision be needle-sharp in thee, like its lustre pass thro’ the heart o’ the glass.

In this garden, where hushed is warbler’s air, as each bursting bud chant thy tragic mode.

Earth hides not His grace, heav’n veils not His face thou may’st view, for sure’, if thou canst endure.

Childlike watchest thou nests beneath the bough; mount on wings, and soon hunt the sun and moon!