غزل شمارهٔ 51

In the abode of passion, where the dust is fraught with pain, shineth in every atom there pure spirit without stain.

No Magian wine from Magian boy the revelers there take; one glance of rapture and of joy each fragile glass doth break.

Let madness surge not in thee so when thou dost stand at prayer; keep firm thy reason; do not go with shredded raiment there!