I, Muztar, die with grief, yearning unsatisfied,
Still hangs the purdah's fold I cannot draw aside,
Nor lift the needless veil woven of shame and pride.

MUZTAR.




XXXV.


The fire of love I for my idol know
Within my bosom hides,
As in the mountain 'neath its crust of snow
The flame abides.

Long have I yearned in vain to kiss her feet,
I lay my weary head
Down in the dust, that thus my lips may greet
Where she may tread.

No wealth have I, but like the moth I live:
Since love demands a price,
I, like the moth, have but my life to give
In sacrifice.

How has my bird-like soul been stricken low,
Pierced to the very heart!