Nay, life itself, to call thee mine.
But shall I make thy spotless name—
That sacred spell—a word of shame?
Shall selfish Majnūn’s heart be blest
And Lailī prove the Arab’s jest?
The city’s gates though we may close
We cannot still our conscience’s throes.
No—we have met,—a moment’s bliss
Has dawned upon my gloom in vain
Life yields no more a joy like this,