Ode XXVIII

I cried out at midnight, ‘Who is in this house of the heart?’
He said, ‘’Tis I, by whose countenance moon and sun are shamed.’
He said, ‘Why is this house of the heart filled with diverse images?’
Said I, ‘They are the reflexion of thee, O thou whose face is a candle of Chigil.’
He said, ‘What is this other image, bedabbled with heart’s blood?’
Said I, ‘This is the image of me, heart-sore and with feet in the mire.’
I bound the neck of my soul and brought it to him as a token:
‘It is the confidant of Love; do not sacrifice thine own confidant.’
He gave me the end of a thread — a thread full of mischief and guile —
‘Pull,’ he said, ‘that I may pull, and break it not in the pulling.’
From the tent of the soul flashed out the form of my Beloved, fairer than before;
I stretched my hands to him; he struck my hand, saying, ‘Let go.’
I said, ‘Thou art harsh, like such an one.’ ‘Know,’ he replied,
‘That I am harsh for good, not from rancour and spite.
Whoever enters saying, “’Tis I,” I smite him on the brow;
For this is the shrine of Love, O fool! It is not a sheep-cote.’
Assuredly Salahi dil u din is the image of that Fair One;
Rub thine eyes, and behold the image of the heart, the image of the heart.