What is that flute whose music thrills me with joy?
The flame burns without a lamp;
The lotus blossoms without a root;
Flowers bloom in clusters;
The moon-bird is devoted to the moon;
With all its heart the rain-bird longs for the shower of rain;
But upon whose love does the Lover concentrate His entire life?

The flute of the Infinite is played without ceasing, and its sound is love:
When love renounces all limits, it reaches truth.
How widely the fragrance spreads! It has no end, nothing stands in its way.
The form of this melody is bright like a million suns: incomparably sounds the vina, the vina of the notes of truth.

More than all else do I cherish at heart that love which makes me to live a limitless life in this world.
It is like the lotus, which lives in the water and blooms in the water: yet the water cannot touch its petals, they open beyond its reach.
It is like a wife, who enters the fire at the bidding of love. She burns and lets others grieve, yet never dishonours love.
This ocean of the world is hard to cross: its waters are very deep. Kabir says: " Listen to me, O Sadhu! few there are who have reached its end. "

O brother, my heart yearns for that true Guru, who fills the cup of true love, and drinks of it himself, and offers it then to me.
He removes the veil from the eyes, and gives the true Vision of Brahma:
He reveals the worlds in Him, and makes me to hear the Unstruck Music:
He shows joy and sorrow to be one:
He fills all utterance with love.
Kabir says: " Verily he has no fear, who has such a Guru to lead him to the shelter of safety! "

I played day and night with my comrades, and now I am greatly afraid.
So high is my Lord's palace, my heart trembles to mount its stairs: yet I must not be shy, if I would enjoy His love.
My heart must cleave to my Lover; I must withdraw my veil, and meet Him with all my body:
Mine eyes must perform the ceremony of the lamps of love.
Kabir says: " Listen to me, friend: he understands who loves. If you feel not love's longing for your Beloved One, it is vain to adorn your body, vain to put unguent on your eyelids. "

Thou God of love, thou ever blest!
Pity my suff'ring state;
When wilt thou set my soul at rest
From men of cruel hate?

Hard lot of mine! my days are cast
Among the sons of strife,
Whose never-ceasing insults waste
My golden hours of life.

Oh! might I fly to change my place,
How would I choose to dwell
In some wide, lonesome wilderness,
And leave these gates of hell!

Peace is the blessing that I seek:
How lovely are its charms!
I am for peace; but, when I speak,
They all declare for arms.

How lovely are Thy tabernacles,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul yearneth, yea, even pineth for
the courts of the Lord;
My heart and my flesh sing for joy
unto the living God.
Yea, the sparrow hath found a house,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
Where she may lay her young;
Thine altars, O Lord of hosts,
My King, and my God —
Happy are they that dwell in Thy
house,
They are ever praising Thee. Selah.

PART I.

M Y heart a noble theme indites:
What I compose concerns the king:
My tongue the swistest pen that writes
Outvies, while I attempt to sing.

None among all the human race
Like thee for loveliness appears:
Thy lips, bedew'd with heavenly grace,
Ravish each wondring soul that hears.
For God will ever from on high
His constant blessings thee afford.
O mighty one, upon thy thigh
Make haste to gird thy conquering sword.

Thy majesty and glory show:

SILENCE

The purple falls between the pines,
The sun that blanched Arundel walls,
Remembering them as he declines,
With purple fills his airy halls.
We drove all day; and all day long
Of Love and longing long we spoke;
And sang so often ballad and song,
The crescent moon cannot evoke
Another word; though Beauty calls
There is no word that can be said.
If Hesperus unhailed shines on,
O do not dream that Love is dead.
The hand I take is not withdrawn,
Between the pines the purple falls.

This craving 'tis that's Venus unto us:
From this, engender all the lures of love,
From this, O first hath into human hearts
Trickled that drop of joyance which ere long
Is by chill care succeeded. Since, indeed,
Though she thou lovest now be far away,
Yet idol-images of her are near
And the sweet name is floating in thy ear.
But it behooves to flee those images;
And scare afar whatever feeds thy love;
And turn elsewhere thy mind; and vent the sperm,
Within thee gathered, into sundry bodies,