Dost not, O Maker, blush to hear, amid the storm of tears and blood,
Man say Thy mercy made what is, and saw the made and said ’twas good?

The marvel is that man can smile dreaming his ghostly ghastly dream;—
Better the heedless atomy that buzzes in the morning beam!

O the dread pathos of our lives! how durst thou, Allah, thus to play
With Love, Affection, Friendship, all that shows the god in mortal clay?

But ah! what ’vaileth man to mourn; shall tears bring forth what smiles ne’er brought;
Shall brooding breed a thought of joy? Ah hush the sigh, forget the thought!

Silence thine immemorial quest, contain thy nature’s vain complaint
None heeds, none cares for thee or thine;—like thee how many came and went?