Incurable

I desire the door-sill of my beloved More than a king's house; I desire the shadow of the wall where her beauty hides More than the Delhi palaces. Why did you wait till spring; Were not my hands already full of red-thorned roses? My heart is yours, So that I know not which heart I hear sighing: Yaquin, Yaquin, Yaquin, foolish Yaquin. From the Hindustani of Yaquin (eighteenth century).