THE MIRROR.

THE MIRROR.
522.1

A lover sought his loved one’s dwelling-place,
And all audacious, craved its hidden grace;
Without the rose-wreathed door, he fearless, knocked—-
Oh, grief; to find the cruel portals locked.

Then from within, sweet as the perfumed air,
Music’s own voice cried: “Who awaits me there?”
Now heed ye well the Lover’s bold reply,
Behold, my Rose of Irene, it is I!”

“Go hence, within my garden rich with bloom,
For Me and Thee besides, there is no room.”
The Lover left, to meditate apart
The cause and cure of his imperfect heart.

In great humility he sought once more
An entrance at the fair forbidden door:
Again the voice of nightingale and lute
Cried: “Who comes here, my garden to salute?”

The Lover answered, freed from his old self,
“I pray thee lift the veil, it is Thyself!”
” Since thou hast learned the human heart to win,
Enter!” replied the voice, “I am within.”

—-Adapted from the Persian of Rumis by Margarel
Ridgely Partridge in Harper’s Monthly Magazine.