غزل شمارهٔ 73

I am a slave set free, and Love still leadeth me; Love is my leader still, mind bows to do my will.

The tumult flareth up out of my circling cup; this is my evening star, my full moon, flaming far.

The spirit slept at rest, desire stirred not the breast, then struck a drunken air caught in my circling snare.

O world of scent and hue, how long shall we so do? Death thy survival proves my living all is Love’s.

The One my thought reveals, the One my thought conceals; here is His dwelling-place – behold my lofty grace!