O cruel One, when once your glances smote me,
Why turn your head?
It were more merciful to let their arrows
Pierce me and strike me dead.

No tomb, Amir, could give my dust oblivion,
No rest was there:
And when they told her I had died of sorrow,
She did not know--nor care.

AMIR.




IV.


This Life is less than shadows; if thou yearn
To know and find the God thou worshippest,
From all the varying shows of being turn
To that true Life which is unmanifest.

Beware, O travellers, dangerous is Life's Way
With lures that call, illusion that deceives,
For set to snare the voyagers that stray
Are fortresses of robbers, lairs of thieves.

The seer's eyes look on the cup of wine