Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
Why ponder thus the future to foresee, and jade thy brain to vain perplexity? Cast off thy care, leave Allah’s plans to him – He formed them all without consulting thee.
Heaven but the vision of fulfilled desire, and Hell the shadow from a soul on fire.
The entire world shall be populous with that action which saves one soul from despair.
Oh, the brave Music of a distant drum!
This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace; When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.