A Rose-Leaf O'er the Spikenard Fall'n

A rose-leaf o'er the spikenard fall'n — the red fes lies on her dark hair;
The perspiration studs her cheeks — the dew-drops which the roses wear.

Since mirrored in th' o'erflowing bowl did yon cup-bearer's chin beam bright,
My eyes were fixed upon that wine, like bubbles which that wine did bear.

Behold thou, then, her braided locks, as musk, all dark and sweet perfumed;
Like ambergris, her tresses shed abroad an odour rich and rare.

Those who set forth on Mystic Path behind soon leave the earth-born love;
The Bridge, as home, within this world of ours, no man hath taken e'er.

Now, O Belîg, that steed, thy reed, doth caracole across this page;
Thy finger-points, the Hayder bold whom that Duldul doth onward bear.