Across the desert’s arid boundary hies
Zyd, like a shadow, following where he flies.
And when the tomb of Lailī meets his view,
Prostrate he falls, the ground his tears bedew;
‘Alas!’ he cries, ‘no more shall I behold
That angel face, that form of heavenly mould,
For thou hast quitted this contentious life,
This scene of endless treachery and strife;
And I, like thee, shall soon my fetters burst,
And quench, in draughts of heavenly love, my thirst.