| WHEN the Self is made strong by Love |
|
| Its power rules the whole world. |
| The Heavenly Sage who adorned the sky with stars |
485 |
| Plucked these buds from the bough of the Self. |
| Its hand becomes God's hand, |
| The moon is split by its fingers54- |
| It is the arbitrator in all the quarrels of the world. |
| Its command is obeyed by Darius and Jamshid. |
490 |
| I will tell thee a story of Bu Ali,55 |
| Whose name is renowned in India, |
| Him who sang of the ancient rose-garden |
| And discoursed to us about the lovely rose: |
| The air of his fluttering skirt |
495 |
| Made a Paradise of this fire-born country. |
| His young disciple went one day to the bazaar |
| The wine of Bu Ali's discourse had turned his head. |
| The governor of the city was coming along on horseback, |
| His servant and staff-bearer rode beside him. |
500 |
| The forerunner shouted, "O senseless one, |
| Do not get in the way of the governor's escort !" |
| But the dervish walked on with drooping head, |
| Sunk in the sea of his own thoughts. |
| The staff-bearer, drunken with pride, |
505 |
| Broken his staff on the head of the dervish. |
| Who stepped painfully out of the governor's way. |
| Sad and sorry, with a heavy heart. |
| He came to Bu Ali and complained |
| And released the tears from his eyes. |
510 |
| Like lightning that falls on mountains, |
| The Sheikh poured forth a fiery torrent of speech. |
| He let loose from his soul a strange fire, |
| He gave an order to his secretary: |
| "Take thy pen and write a letter |
515 |
| From a dervish to a sultan! |
| Say, 'Thy governor has broken my servant's head; |
| He has cast burning coals on his own life. |
| Arrest this wicked governor, |
| Or else I will bestow thy kingdom on another. |
520 |
| The letter of the saint's who had access to God |
| Caused the monarch to tremble in every limb. |
| His body was filled with aches, |
| He grew as pale as the evening sun. |
| He sought out a handcuff for the governor |
525 |
| And entreated Bu Ali to pardon this offence. |
| Khusrau, the sweet-voicedeloquent poet.56 |
| Whose harmonies how from the mind |
| And whose genius hath the soft brilliance of moonlight, |
| Was chosen to the king's ambassador. |
530 |
| When he entered Bu Ali's presence and played his lute, |
| His song melted the fakir's soul like glass. |
| One strain of Poesy bought the grace |
| Of a kingdom that was frim as a mountain. |
| Do not wound the heart of dervishes, |
535 |
| Do not throw thyself into burning fire creative |
