The mind can give you naught, but what with doubt is fraught: One look of Saintly Guide can needful cure provide.

The goal that you presume is far and out of view: What else can be this life but zeal for endless strife?

Much worth the pearl begets, for guard on self it sets: What else in pearl is found except its sheen profound?

Though blood in veins may race, to Life it lends no grace: Only the glow of heart to Life can zeal impart.

Wherefore, O Tulip Bride, from me your charms you hide? I am the breath of morn, your face I would adorn.

What Frankish dealers take for counterfeit and fake, is true and real art – not valued in their Mart.

Though indigent I be, I am of hand yet free: What can the Flame bestow except its spark and glow?