Such light there gleams from the Beloved's face
That every eye becomes her worshipper,
And every mirror, looking on her grace,
Desires to be the frame enclosing her.

Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,
In this grim place of slaughter strange indeed
Your joy to see unveiled her haughty glance
That flashes like the scimitar of Ede.

When I had hardly drawn my latest breath,
Pardon she asked for killing me. Alas,
How soon repentance followed on my death,
How quick her unavailing sorrow was!

GHALIB.




XX.


I grant you will not utterly forget,
I hold you not unheeding and unjust,
But ere you hear my prayer
I shall be dead and turned to senseless dust.

How little can one eager sigh attain
To touch thine icy heart to tenderness!