“The fevered thoughts that on me prey
Death’s sea alone can sweep away.
I found the bird of Paradise
That long I sought with care;
Fate snatched it from my longing eyes—
I held—despair.
Wail, Lailī, wail our fortunes crossed,
Weep, Majnūn, weep—forever lost.”
DEATH OF THE LOVERS.
Time passed by on leaden feet, for he no longer carried in his hands the flowers of hope. No longer the bare horizon of the desert was illumined with the mirage of rivers and palms. Fate had done her worst, and Death, the great consoler, waited near to place his seal with the touch of peace upon the weary brow. The flower of the desert lay again in the tower where she had passed so many wasted years, and feeling that her life was going out with the glory of the setting sun, she called her mother to her side and pleaded that when she was gone Majnūn might be allowed to weep over her grave.