GAZEL
A rose-leaf o’er the spikenard fall’n—the red fez lies on her dark hair;
The perspiration studs her cheeks—the dew-drops which the roses wear.
Since mirrored in th’ o’erflowing bowl did yon cup-bearer’s chin beam bright,
My eyes were fixed upon that wine, like bubbles which that wine did bear.
Behold thou, then, her braided locks, as musk, all dark and sweet perfumed;
Like ambergris, her tresses shed abroad an odor rich and rare.
Those who set forth on Mystic Path behind soon leave the earth-born love;
The Bridge, as home, within this world of ours, no man hath taken e’er.
Now, O Belīg, that steed, thy reed, doth caracole across this page;
Thy finger-points, the Hayder bold whom that Duldul doth onward bear.
Belīg.