غزل شمارهٔ 63

A secret ’tis, ’tis evident (Thou sayst) this world of hue and scent: Go, strike thyself upon its wire – Thou art the plectrum, it the lyre.

The gaze disclosed in ecstasy trembles to view its purity, and yet thou sayst it is a veil. A covering, a thing unreal!

Pull down the pole of the immense that struts heaven’s cerulean tents, for like a spark it naked lies before the contemplative eyes.

High Paradise is not so fair as this clay garment that I wear; within this sanctuary of mine is holy fire, and joy divine.

I lose myself a little time, I lose awhile the great sublime, the twain discovering presently – O miracle, O mystery!