Nor yet a sighing listener am I,
I am the nightingale that used to sing
In joy, but now am mute, remembering.
I know the drop within the ocean hides,
But know not in what place my soul abides:
I cannot read the hidden mystery—
Whence came I, whither go I, what am I.
My friends have paid due reverence at my grave,
And held my dust as sacred, for I gave
My humble life to the Belovéd's sword,