|I walk lonely the earth; hear my lament,|
And in your breast too may these whirlwinds flame!
My grief-stained songs are precious dower; such wealth
As sad thoughts hive is rare in our world. I blame
The age for its dull wit, imagining
My labour and Farhad’s long toil the same;
Far different is the noise of axe on rocks—
Listen! at my own heart the keen blade knocks.