Tho’ I am but a mote, the radiant sun is mine
Within my bosom are a hundred dawns.
My dust is brighter than Jamshid’s cup-“
It knows things that are yet unborn in the world.
My thought hunted down and slung from the saddle a deer.
That has not yet leaped forth from the covert of non-existence.
Fair is my garden ere yet the leaves are green:
Unborn roses are hidden in the skirt of my garment.
I struck dumb the musicians where they were gathered together,
I smote the heart-string of the universe,
Because the lute of my genius hath a rare melody:
Even to comrades my song is strange.