The Realm of Sufferance Thou'st Laid Waste

The realm of sufferance thou'st laid waste; Hulagu Khan art hight, Paynim,
Have ruth! thou'st set the world aflame; art thou a burning light, Paynim?

A maiden's winsome air, thine air; a youthful gallant's tone, thy tone;
A torment thou! I wist not, art thou youth or maiden bright, Paynim?

What meaning bears that wede of flame-hued satin o'er thy shoulders thrown?
Art thou the soul-consuming gleam of grace and love-delight, Paynim?

Ah, what may be those secret, secret sighs, and what that rended spare?
Art thou, e'en thou, the wailing lover of some wanton wight, Paynim?

A many say to thee 'My Life;' another many say 'My Lore;'
What art thou? Art thou Life, or art thou Love? declare aright, Paynim.

The flame-hued wine hath flushed thee, dear, and set thy sweetest face aglow;
Art thou become the lamp wherewith the topers' circle is dight, Paynim?

O wherefore in the burnished mirror lookest thou so oft, my fair?
Art thou likewise astound of thine own dazzling beauty's sight, Paynim?

I've heard a Paynim hath made thrall of hapless and forlorn Nedim;
Art thou that foe unto the Faith, that adversary of right, Paynim?