Zaburi Ajam [Electronic resources] نسخه متنی

63

A secret ‘tis, ‘tis evident

(Thou sayst) this world of hue and scent:

Go, strike thyself upon its wire–

Thou art the plectrum, it the lyre.

The gaze disclosed in ecstasy

Trembles to view its purity,

And yet thou sayst it is a veil.

A covering, a thing unreal!

Pull down the pole of the immense

That struts heaven’s cerulean tents,

For like a spark it naked lies

Before the contemplative eyes.

High Paradise is not so fair

As this clay garment that I wear;

Within this sanctuary of mine

Is holy fire, and joy divine.

I lose myself a little time,

I lose awhile the great sublime,

The twain discovering presently–

O miracle, O mystery!