The crimson stream deserts my heart,
To mantle on thy face.
ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE
(By the Caliph Radhi Billah)
Mortal joys, however pure,
Soon their turbid source betray;
Mortal bliss, however sure,
Soon must totter and decay.
Ye who now, with footsteps keen,
Range through hope's delusive field,