That Thy Form

That thy form, O Beauty of His orchard who doth all pervade!
Is a cypress, wrought of light, that casteth on earth's face no shade.

Though the gazers on the loveliness of Joseph cut their hands,
Cleft in twain the fair moon's palm, when it thy day-bright face surveyed.

To the mart of the Hereafter, when a man hath passed, he gains
Through the money bright, thy love, which is of joy the stock-in-trade.

This, my hope, that yonder Cypress in the bowers of Paradise
Shelter Zâtî, and all true believers, 'neath his blissful shade.