Page:The Luzumiyat of Abu'l-Ala.djvu/84



And all my years, as vapid as my lay, Are bitter morsels of a mystic day,—
 * The day of Fate, who carries in his lap

December snows and snow-white flowers of May.

Allah, my sleep is woven through, it seems, With burning threads of night and golden beams;
 * But when my dreams are evil they come true;

When they are not, they are, alas! but dreams.