I am the slave of each living heart whose love is pure, refined; not cloistered monks who dwell apart, their hearts to none resigned.

With such a heart as knows the hue, yet from all hue is free; in mosque, and inn, and temple, too, the touchstone sure they be.

Beyond the moon and Pleiades their gaze is lifted high; the Milky Way contents not these for them to nest thereby.

Within the multitude are they, yet out of it withal; in spirit’s solitude they stay, while dwelling amid all.

Regard not meanly, nor despise the truly loving man; though little worth, ‘tis merchandise fit for Life’s caravan.

The charter of their liberty is writ for slaves to keep; and now the Sheikh and Brahman be shepherds without their sheep.

Take thou the goblet in thy hold; wine lawful is, they tell although the tale be strange, ‘tis told by speakers credibl.