While within my heart thine eye's shaft, send not to my
breast despair;
Idol mine! guest after guest must not to one same house be
led.
Through its grieving for thy hyacinth down, thus feeble
grown
Is the basil, that the gardeners nightly o'er it water shed.
Quoth I: "O Life! do not shun Jem, he a pilgrim here
hath come";
"Though a pilgrim, yet his life doth on a child's face hang,"