It has laid the knife to its own throat.
Having fire, it is yet cold as the tulip;
Having flame, it is yet cold as hail.
Its nature remains untouched by the glow of Love, 1485
It is ever engaged in a joyless search.
Love is the Plato that heals the sicknesses of the mind:[101]
The mind’s melancholy is cured by its lancet.
The whole world bows in adoration to Love,
Love is the Mahmúd that conquers the Somnath of intellect.[102] 1490
Modern science lacks this old wine in its cup,