The secret of the love of thee In this our brain still turneth.
Behold, how many a thing in this Our head insane still turneth!

If in thy tress-tip's mallet-crook A man his heart adventure,
Certes, ball-wise, from head to foot Awhirl, the swain still turneth.

Though that heart-charmer cruelly And falsely with us dealeth,
Natheless, our heart, to hope and faith True, in her train still turneth.

For heav'n's oppression and the rage Of Time, the shirt of patience
Upon my body to a vest, Rended in twain, still turneth.

Of thy love the young shoot Of amazement there cometh;
Of thine union the fruit Of amazement there cometh.

How many an one, plunged in the ocean of union,
To the nethermost root Of amazement there cometh!

Enjoyment abideth not, neither enjoyer,
Whereas the repute Of amazement there cometh

From what side soever whereunto I hearken,
The clamour and bruit Of amazement there cometh.

Nay, show me one heart, whereupon, in her pathway,
No mole, at the suit Of amazement, there cometh.

Minstrel Love with voice and ghittern Wondrous skill possesseth:
All he soundeth its especial Fashion still possesseth.

Be the world of lovers' plaining Never void, for virtue
Joy-imparting that its cadence Sweet and shrill possesseth.

Though nor gold he hath nor puissance, Our dreg-draining elder
None the less a Lord gift-giving, Cov'ring ill, possesseth.

Dear my heart hold; for enamoured Since this sugar-craving
Fly of thee is, it the Huma's Pomp at will possesseth.

'Twere but justice if a monarch Of his neighbour question,

See, in the world all love proves false.
On their own happiness all are set; each on his own, be it wife, be it friend.
" Mine, mine, " cry all: the mind is chained to self-regard.
At the last none is thy companion: passing strange is this, their way.
O foolish heart, still thou perceivest not: with teaching thee the law my strength is gone.
O Nanak, he alone will cross the world-ocean, who sings the songs of Hari.

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,