GAZEL
With longing fond and vain, why should I make my soul to mourn?
One trace of love of earth holds not my heart—all is forsworn.
There ready stands the caravan, to Death’s dim realms addrest,
E’en now the tinkling of its bells down on my ears is borne.
Come then, O bird, my soul, be still, disquiet leave far off;
See, how this cage, the body, is with years and suffering worn.
But yet, to weary, wasted, sin-stained Shāhī, what of fear?
Since Thou’rt the God of Love, the helping Friend of those forlorn!
Shāhī.