LVIII: Thou meltest me, every moment, in a hundred…

Thou meltest me, every moment, in a hundred ways;
But thou showest not, unto me, the tinge of attachment.

All unprofitably, during the reign of thy tyrannical beauty,
Anchorites bring under cultivation patience and austerity.

To the sight, become manifest, in every wrinkle of thy brow,
The signs and portents of the torments of the judgment-day.

Who, with thy sanguinary eyes, may contract acquaintance,
In their families will be woe and misery for evermore.

Whereas, I go about searching every portal and gateway,
I seek the threshold of the door of thy dwelling to find.

How shall I bring myself before the sword of thy countenance,
When the mirror, itself, recoileth from the edge of it?

Since, the "Night of Power" of thy curls became its portion,
What night-watching is fallen to the good fortune of the comb!

I, Hamid, twist and twine myself about, unavailingly,
Like unto a serpent on the treasure of the faces of the fair.