Thou Movest Under All The Forms Of Truth

O Thou, whose memory quickens lovers' souls, Whose fount of joy renews the lover's tongue, Thy shadow falls across the world, and they Bow down to it; and of the rich in beauty Thou art the riches that make lovers mad. Not till Thy secret beauty through the cheek Of Laila smite does she inflame Majnún, And not till Thou have sugar'd Shírín's lip The hearts of those two lovers fill with blood. For lov'd and lover are not but by Thee, Nor beauty; mortal beauty but the veil Thy heavenly hides behind, and from itself Feeds, and our hearts yearn after as a bride That glances past us veil'd--but even so As none the beauty from the veil may know. How long wilt Thou continue thus the world To cozen with the phantom of a veil From which Thou only peepest?--Time it is To unfold Thy perfect beauty. I would be Thy lover, and Thine only--I, mine eyes Seal'd in the light of Thee to all but Thee, Yea, in the revelation of Thyself Self-lost, and conscience-quit of good and evil. Thou movest under all the forms of truth, Under the forms of all created things; Look whence I will, still nothing I discern But Thee in all the universe.