O Heart! E'en Though Thou Tell'st Thy Woes

O heart! e'en though thou tell'st thy woes, yon maid will ne'er compassion deign:
When constancy and troth thou seek'st, dost thou address the barren plain?

The student of the course of tyranny is yonder wanton wild;
To look for faith or grace from her who enmity desires is vain.

That paynim glance doth hold in hand a dagger sharp of point and keen;
And yet, O babe, my heart, thou dost to thousands sing her praises' strain.

In hope that it would yield the soul a breath of favour's odour sweet,
How yonder rosebud-mouth effaceth all, thou dost thereto explain.

O Sabqatî, what wondrous science hath thy magic talent learnt,
That thou right royally inditest every joyous, glad refrain?