LXXXI
"There is no God save Allah!"—that is true,
Nor is there any prophet save the mind
Of man who wanders through the dark to find
The Paradise that is in me and you.
LXXXII
The rolling, ever-rolling years of time
Are as a diwan of Arabian song;
The poet, headstrong and supremely strong,
Refuses to repeat a single rhyme.
LXXXIII
An archer took an arrow in his hand;
So fair he sent it singing to the sky
That he brought justice down from—ah, so high!
He was an archer in the morning land.
LXXXIV
The man who shot his arrow from the west
Made empty roads of air; yet have I thought
Our life was happier until we brought
This cold one of the skies to rule the nest.
LXXXV
Run! follow, follow happiness, the maid
Whose laughter is the laughing waterfall;
Run! call to her—but if no maiden call,
'Tis something to have loved the flying shade.