Yield Not the Soul to Pang of Love

Yield not the soul to pang of Love, for Love's the soul's fierce glow;
That Love's the torment of the soul doth all the wide world know.

Seek not for gain from fancy wild of pang of Love at all;
For all that comes from fancy wild of Love's pang is grief's throe.

Each curving eyebrow is a blood-stained sabre thee to slay;
Each dusky curl, a deadly venomed snake to work thee woe.

Lovely, indeed, the forms of moon-like maidens are to see —
Lovely to see, but ah! the end doth bitter anguish show.

From this I know full well that torment dire in love abides,
That all who lovers are, engrossed with sighs, rove to and fro.

Call not to mind the pupils of the black-eyed damsels bright,
With thought: 'I'm man,' be not deceived, 'tis blood they drink, I trow.

E'en if Fuzûlî should declare: 'In fair ones there is troth;'
Be not deceived: 'A poet's words are falsehoods all men know.'