It is the gift of God to thee
This beauty rare and exquisite;
Why dost thou hide it thus from me,
I shall not steal nor sully it.

And as thy beauty shines, in Heaven
There climbs upon its path of fire
The star that lights my rival's way,
And with it mounts his heart's desire.

Even in thy house is jealousy,
Thy youth demands the lover's praise
Over thy beauty, which itself
Is jealous of thy gracious ways.

I died with joy when winningly
I heard the Well-Beloved call--
Zahir, where is my beauty gone,
Thou must have robbed me after all.

ZAHIR.




XLVIII.


O Tyrannous One, when from my heart was drawn