As the sound of two soft flutes combined, or the scent of sister
flowers.
But the body, that wretched slave of the Sultan, Mind,
Who follows his master ever, but far behind,
Nothing was granted him, and every rebellious cell
Rises up with angry protest, “It is not well!
Night is falling; thou hast departed; I am alone;
And the Last Sweetness of Love thou hast not given—I have not known!”
II
Somewhere, Oh, My Beloved One, the house is standing,