The Double Scoop

May he who coldly scoffs at pangs of loveBe straight enamored of yon lark above:May he, despairing, see her gaily rise,To mock his hopeless passion from the skies.

Be wise, young Jackal, open not by day:Await the somber safer face of night.Be sure that all you meet upon the wayAre greyhounds, trained to run you down at sight.

Bismillah! Here's ink, a fair tablet, a pen,I'll set down the names of your enemies, men.The wandering bees, which betray the rich store;These, these are your foes, and will be evermore!

Like artless fawn, each fair gazelle reposesUpon her forest couch of musk and roses;The air instinct with dreams of perfumed pleasure—A sight, I swear, worth camel-loads of treasure.

Vast as creation, yet when all is said,How short the words that make our weal or wo?What dearer heaven now? What deeper hell?"I love thee," or "I love thee not" farewell.And may the mercy of the Lord descendOn Sidi Hammo. Here his song hath end.