They said to her—­Behold him, he is dead! 
    How did he lose his life, unhappy one? 
—­O bury him deep in the grave, she said,
    For what is done is done.

This is the pain of love that I have caught,
    And what is done is done;
A thousand remedies avail me naught,
    And what is done is done.

For love I gave the honour of my name,
    And Good and Evil are to me as one;
Let all the world chastise me with its blame,
    For what is done is done.

The dust of Taban we could find no more,
    But yet nor rest nor respite hath he won;
His breath, his soul, floats round thee as before,
    And—­what is done is done.

Taban.

XL.

O Lovely One, when to the ravished sight
Thou wilt unveil that radiant face of thine,
Each atom of the worlds, catching thy light,
Reflecting thee, bright as a sun shall shine.

Walk not, my flower, within the garden close,
Lest thou should give the bulbul new distress;
For at thy glance each blossom turns a rose
To lure him with her cruel loveliness.

Victorious One, thou hast unsheathed thy sword,
The scimitar of thy beauty gleams again,
So over all thy lovers thou art Lord,
Holding dominion in the hearts of men.

Art thou serene and calm and unafraid
When thou considerest thy tyranny? 
Think of the reckoning that shall be made
Between thy heart and mine at Judgment Day.

Wali.

XLI.

O ask not frigid Piety to dwell
    In the same house with Youth and warm Desire;
It were as idle as if one should tell
    Water to be a comrade of the Fire.

O say not only that the Loved One left
    My lonely heart, and fled beyond recall;
But I of rest and patience am bereft,
    And losing Her I am deprived of all.

Take heed, O Hunter, though within thy net
    Thou hold this bird, my soul, with many bands,
I struggle sore, for Freedom lures me yet,
    And may escape from out thy cruel hands.

YAKRANG.

XLII.

Thou shouldst have given to me the robe and crown
    And made me king of kings,
Or dressed me in the tattered darwesh gown,
    Poorest of earthly things.

O that I were thy fool to do thy will,
    Simple and led by thee! 
What meaning have my knowledge and my skill,
    They have no worth to me.

Lo, thou hast made me as the dust that flies
    Unheeded in the street,
O were I that which in her pathway lies,
    Trodden beneath her feet!

My heart is as it were to fringes shred,
    Such wounds it had to bear;
Would that it were the comb, to touch her head,
    To tend her perfumed hair!