Rûmî, Divan (Davis), “Thy Rose”

Our Sweetnesses all bleat in Thee,
Give infant lips their smiles benign.
Thou crushest me to drops of Rose
Nor 'neath the press do I repine.
In Thy sweet Pain is pain forgot;
For I, Thy Rose, had this design.
Thou bad'st me blossom on Thy Robe,
And mad'st me for all eyes Thy sign.
And when Thou pour'st me on the world,
It blows in beauty, all Divine.