XXXII
Hasten, O Saki, bring
The wine that it may grant its quickening
To my dead heart, and to the withered flowers
Come like the showers
That give the resurrection of the spring.
What weary days
Are these, that never in the perfumed ways
The bulbul sings among the cypress trees;
Only the morning breeze
Finds entrance there, and with the roses plays.
Masiha, thou canst heal,
Thou wise Physician, hear our heart's appeal!
Give us the bitter draught to cure our grief,
And grant relief;
Blame not the shrinking from thy cup we feel.
Glimmer not, pearly dawn.
Let not the veil of night be yet withdrawn;
I long to send, with arrows of my sighs.
Unto the skies
My eager prayers before the night be gone.
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