With Longing Fond and Vain

With longing fond and vain, why should I make my soul to mourn?
One trace of love of earth holds not my heart — all is forsworn.

There ready stands the caravan, to Death's dim realms addrest,
E'en now the tinkling of its bells down on my ears is borne.

Come then, O bird, my soul, be still, disquiet leave far off;
See, how this cage, the body, is with years and suffering worn.

But yet, to weary, wasted, sin-stained Shâhî, what of fear?
Since Thou'rt the God of Love, the helping Friend of those forlorn!