Wouldst thou have sought and loved me had I been
Ill-favoured, say, as my poor slave, Aziz?'
"Ah, poor indeed! I heard nor cared no more,
Shivering in my furs upon the snow,
Not from the cold, but from the icy pangs
Of pain that will be with me till I die.
Truly, to-morrow's torments will not be
Crueller than these memories of mine.
The heated irons, the flesh-dividing steel,
Are they not gifts from thee, my well-beloved?
"Ah, when they lead me out, beyond the walls,
I shall look forth, across the rosy hills
Knowing that far beyond their lilac rims
Thou wilt awake, in all thy beauty's pride,
Safe and beloved, already forgetful of me,
Whose lonely and smouldering life has broken at last
Into this passionate flame of death. Mir—Khan"
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