Page:The Diwan of Zeb-un-Nissa.djvu/84



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Let not the veil of night be yet withdrawn; I long to send, with arrows of my sighs.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.