A hundred notes throb in my bosom. 400
How shall I tell what devotion he inspires?
A block of dry wood wept at parting from him.[41]
The Moslem’s being is where he manifests his glory:
Many a Sinai springs from the dust on his path.
My image was created by his mirror, 405
My dawn rises from the sun of his breast.
My repose is a perpetual fever,
My evening hotter than the morning of Judgement Day:[42]
He is the April cloud and I his garden,