The Scented Garden

128 The ruling passion strong in death. XXXVII THE CRANE What if our pleasures prove the bane Of this thy lover’s shuddering brain ?1 Some evil Jinn may haunt the fane ; Some serpent hurt the sugar-cane ; Some rot infect the golden grain ! Nay, though my flesh grow boil and blain, Each sinew cramp, each muscle sprain, Each link dissolve of Nature’s chain, Each nerve disrupt in thoughts inane,2 Each function abdicate its reign, I care not, so this love remain. Dead or alive, insane or sane, The perfect passion of us twain Shall bring us blessing in its train As summer brings the welcome rain. Turn, life’s deceitful weather-vane ! Our love is set as Charles his wain3 That lights to love the amorous swain.4 On one love rest my life ; in vain The evil Jinn may pour their pain, Torture this soul again, again, With wrath and will, with might and main ; High Allah can their hate restrain— Our loves their goodly shape retain. Though Shaitan5 should the court profane, He spits against the loftier plane In empty malice. Who would deign To mark him ? By our lion’s mane6 I swear ! to tread the lonely lane Of death to me is royal gain, Since I with my Habib have lain,