Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)
Ashtoreth Parfait Amour Opium Sombre Sonnet Languor Ennui Litany Harvard Pride Song of Golden Youth Mais Moi Je Vis La Vie En Rouge Louanges D'Elle Hélas Sonnet Sonnet Rondeau Autumn Song Ballad Changelessness Madonna Poppy Song Consolation Liebes-Tod Evening Song Song of the Stars in Praise of Her Aubade Remember Song Song Constancy Requiem Autumn Burial Sonnet of Burial Nocturne
Mad Sonnet The House of Youth De Profundis Prayer Sestettes Sonnet of the Instruments of Death Truth Hegel Monotony Sepulture Miserrimus Scorn The Grave Mummy Sepulchral Life Corpse Mankind The Defilers The Grotesques Dead Dialogue Fragments Envoi
I am a little tired of all things mortal; I see through half-shut eyelids languorous The old monotonous Gold sun set slowly through the western portal, Where I recline upon my deep dîwân, In Ispahân.
I am a little weary of the Persian Girl that I lov'd; I am quite tir'd of love; And I am weary of The smoking censers, and the sweet diversion Of stroking Leila's jasmine-scented hair, I thought so fair.
At last I think I am quite tired of beauty; Why do the stars shine always in the sky? I think if I might die, Something more sweet, less tiring than the duty Of kissing her, might be; I am tired of myrrh, And kissing her.
Khaled, come, come, and slowly move the scented Gold narghilé away; let the lyres cease. And now a little peace! For see, moon-faced Leila hath repented Of singing Hafiz' songs melodiously, And languidly.
Surely all things are vain, and great thanksgiving Is due not; surely all things now are vain; And all my heart is fain Of something, something, far too great for living; Nothing is very sad, nor wonderful, Nor beautiful.
Well now, since all things are not worth the winning, Goodbye! With these I have a little play'd; And once, alas, I pray'd That gorgeous, golden sins be mine for sinning; But now I would not leave my palanquin For any sin.
And long ago I prov'd in great compassion For man, that Brahm is not nor ever was; But now, alas, alas
I would he were, that in the olden fashion I might laugh once again ere all is said; But Brahm is dead.