This is from a book of Rumi’s poems that my father gave me some months ago:
‘Tis heart-ache lays the lover’s passion bare:
No sickness with heart-sickness may compare.
Love is a malady apart, the sign
And astrolabe of mysteries Divine.
Whether of heavenly mould or earthly cast,
Love still doth lead us Yonder at the last.
Reason, explaining Love, can naught but flounder
Like ass in mire: Love is Love’s own expounder.
Does not the sun himself the sun declare?
Behold him! All the proof thou seek’st is there.
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