How rich are love’s scents tonight and how sweet is love’s endless tale!
Each dust-grain is a rose, and each rose is its own nightingale.
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The dust-garden of roses and nightingales blooms and sings all around me.
Wisdom I hold cheap after having heard so much nonsense uttered profoundly.
The dust blooms and sings; but I am still dumb, apart, bound in stone-binding.
But the Master has kept His shining word and has begun the grinding.
Not among stones with the noise of false waters in my ears
Did I reckon would be the harvest of my ardent years.
All those girls who have beguiled me through the ages:
They have been scrupulously excluded from history’s pages.
Our song is no more, Beloved, than the sighing of a breeze in your praise;
We do not implore great boons or small benefits to fatten our days.
Though we were to sing from now until time’s end, we will be no more
Than a band of minstrels playing a one-night stand before Your door.
We set out in the long-ago, in the dawn of Creation.
We set out singing in a sort of a nude jubilation.
In a moment of aberration I thought I saw the Beloved,
Quite forgetting that from my station no glimpse may be had of the Beloved.
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