The love of a youngling maid In my head grown white hath fallen;
The secret that in my heart I hid Into light hath fallen.

The bird of my heart took wing And followed the path of vision;
But see in whose snare, o eye, The wretch, in its flight, hath fallen!

In my liver, the musk-pod like, How much heart's blood (woe worth it!)
For love of that black-eyed fawn, That musk-deer bright, hath fallen!

From passage along the dust Of thy street each musk-pod cometh,
That into the hand of the breeze Of ended night hath fallen.

Fix on thy Lord thy love, O mind, fix on the Lord thy love.

So great a chance to-morrow will not bring again: this chance once lost will pass away.
In gazing on the beauty of the body be not charmed: it is but a wall of sand.

Happiness and wealth are but words in a dream, as dew upon, the stubble.
The deed which wins the eternal Word; O friend, perform that deed.

All, who sought refuge, He has drawn to safety: this is the manner of the Lord.
Kabir says, Hear, O brother Sadhus, depart victorious over the hosts of dread.

Who with a bridle strives to curb the waves?
Or in a cypresse chest locks flaming fires?
So when love angred in thy bosome raves,
And grief with love a double flame inspires,
By silence thou mayst adde, but never lesse it:
The way is by expressing to represse it.

Who then will blame affection not respected,
To vent in grief the grief that so torments him?
Passion will speak in passion, if neglected:
Love that so soon will chide, as soon repents him;
And therefore boyish Love's too like a boy,
With a toy pleas'd, displeased with a toy.

By hope and fear, by grief and joy opprest,
With deadly hate, more deadly love infected;
Without, within, in body, soul, distrest;
Little by all, least by my self respected,
But most, most there, where most I lov'd, neglected;
Hated, and hating life, to death I call;
Who scorns to take what is refus'd by all.

Whither, ah, whither then wilt thou betake thee,
Despised wretch, of friends, of all forlorn,
Since hope, and love, and life, and death forsake thee?
Poore soul, thy own tormenter, others scorn!

Blue is the water and clear the moon.
He is out on the South Lake,
Gathering white lilies.
The lotus flowers seem to whisper love,
And fill the boatman's heart with sadness.

" I wandered forth alone, " sang she,
" When summer flowers were young,
And birds made merry songs for me,
The summer woods among;
And gaily, gaily danced the rill,
And balmy was the air: —
But there was something failed me still,
Though all the land was fair.

" The blossoms all are dead, " she sings,
" That graced the summer-time;
And summer birds have spread their wings,
To seek a softer clime.
The wintry sky is dark above;
The silent woods are bare: —
But thou art near me, oh, my love,

A youth once lov'd me, and his love I spurn'd.
But see the vengeance of the pow'rs above
On cold indiff'rence: now 'tis I that love,
And my fond love, alas! is not return'd.

Colin, worshipping some frail,
By self-deprecation sways her:
Calls himself unworthy male,
Hardly even fit to praise her.

But this tactic insincere
In the upshot greatly grieves him
When he finds the lovely dear
Quite implicitly believes him.

Except the love of moonfaced maids, This heart of mine a way takes not;
I counsel this and that; but it Advice, say what I may, takes not.

For Heaven's sake, admonisher, Bespeak me of the skinker's down;
For goodlier effect on me Whatever thou canst say takes not.

The wineflask hid with me I bear And folk suppose it is the Book:
Strange if the fire of this my fraud The Book itself some day takes not!

This particoloured gaberdine Some day I sure shall burn; since it
The Elder of the Winesellers For one poor cup in pay takes not.

Not long ago I fell in love,
But unreturned is my affection —
The girl that I'm enamored of
Pays little heed in my direction.

I thought I knew her fairly well:
In fact, I'd had my arm around her;
And so it's hard to have to tell
How unresponsive I have found her.

For, though she is not frankly rude,
Her manners quite the wrong way rub me:
It seems to me ingratitude
To let me love her — and then snub me!

Though I'm considerate and fond,
She shows no gladness when she spies me —
She gazes off somewhere beyond