The Song of the Reed

(From Rumi's Mathnawi Poems, Book I,
Translation by: Sir William Jones)

Hear, how yon reed in sadly pleasing tales

Departed bliss and present woe bewails!

'With me, from native banks untimely torn,

Love-warbling youths and soft-ey'd virgins mourn.

O! Let the heart, by fatal absence rent,

Feel what I sing, and bleed when I lament:

Who roams in exile from his parent bow'r,

Pants to return, and chides each ling'ring hour.

My notes, in circles of the grave and gay,

Have, hail'd the rising, cheer'd the closing day:

Each in my fond affections claim'd a part,

But none discern'd the secret of my heart.

What though my strains and sorrows flow combin'd!

Yet ears are slow, and carnal eyes are blind.

Free through each mortal form the spirits roll,

But sight avails not. Can we see the soul?

Such notes breath'd gently from yon vocal frame:

Breath'd said I? no; 'twas all enliv'ning flame.

'Tis love, that fills the reed with warmth divine;

'Tis love, that sparkles in the racy wine.

Me, plaintive wand'rer from my peerless maid,

The reed has fir'd, and all my soul betray'd

He gives the bane, and he with balsam cures;

Afflicts, yet soothes; impassions, yet allures.

Delightful pangs his am'rous tales prolong;

And LAILI'S frantic lover lives in song.

Not he, who reasons best, this wisdom knows:

Ears only drink what rapt'rous tongues disclose.

Rumi