ذو النون المصري, Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of Islam

"I die, and yet not dies in me The ardour of my love for Thee,Nor hath Thy Love, my only goal,Assuaged the fever of my soul. To Thee alone my spirit cries;In Thee my whole ambition lies,And still Thy Wealth is far above The poverty of my small love. I turn to Thee in my request,And seek in Thee my final rest;To Thee my loud lament is brought,Thou dwellest in my secret thought. However long my sickness be,This wearisome infirmity,Never to men will I declare The burden Thou has made me bear. To Thee alone is manifest The heavy labour of my breast,Else never kin nor neighbors know The brimming measure of my woe. A fever burns below my heart And ravages my every part;It hath destroyed my strength and stay,And smouldered all my soul away. Guidest Thou not upon the road The rider wearied by his load,Delivering from the steeps of death The traveller as he wandereth?Didst Thou not light a beacon too For them that found the Guidance true But carried not within their hand The faintest glimmer of its brand?O then to me Thy Favour give That, so attended, I may live,And overwhelm with ease from Thee The rigor of my poverty."