There was a door to which I found no key: There was the veil through which I might not see.

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long, have done my credit in this World much wrong; have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup, and sold my Reputation for a Song.

I hide my grief, just like the blessed birds hide themselves when they are preparing to die, my love.

For in and out, above, about, below, 'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show, Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

The unbeliever knows his Koran best.

The rose that once has bloomed forever dies.