غزل شمارهٔ 58

Soft my breath doth pass soft as April airs; Jasmine-sweet the grass springeth from my tears.

Desert tulip glows with the blood I shed as in beaker shews wine all ruby-red.

Soareth so my flight o’er the highest sphere that the souls of light seek to trap me there.

Labours ever new make man’s dust to glow; moon and star still do as long time ago.

My self’s lamp I lit, now that Moses’ hand men have hidden it ’neath the wristlet-band.

Come, O come to prayer; court no prince’s door: so our fathers were when the world was poor.