غزل شمارهٔ 29

Thine is the hawk upon the wing and thine the thrush sweet-carolling, thine is the light and joy of life and thine its fire and baneful strife.

Thou gayest me a heart awake and, through the world my way to take, a little dust – a moon forlorn upon a night-dark litter borne.

My every thought from thee doth start, whether on lip or in the heart; whether the pearl be brought from sea, or left enfoundered, ‘tis of thee.

I am the selfsame cloud of dust swept idly as the wind doth lust; tulip, and springtime’s scattered dew. Thou art their sole creator too.

Thou art the painter; Thy design inspires and moves this brush of mine; Thy hands the living world adorn, and shape the ages yet unborn.

Much sorrow in my heart I had that by the tongue could not be said: Love, lovelessness, troth, treachery – all things alike are sprung of thee.