And all to come can be but pain.
Thou, thou, adored! might be mine own
A thousand deaths let Majnūn die
Ere but a breath by slander blown
Should sully Lailī’s purity!
Go, then—and to thy tribe return,
Fly from my arms that clasp thee yet;
I feel my brain with frenzy burn—
Oh, joy, could I but thus forget!”
With another kiss upon the silent lips—another close embrace, the manly lover tore himself away to another struggle between death and life; still warring in the unequal strife with fate, he told to the desert wind, his piteous tale: