Three Poems from Rumi

Listen to the reed how it tells a tale,
complaining of separations —
saying, "Ever since I was parted from the reed-bed,
my lament hath caused man and woman to moan.
I want a bosom torn by severance,
that I may unfold the pain of love-desire.
Every one who is left far from his source
wishes back the time when he was united with it.

In every company I uttered my wailful notes;
I consorted with the unhappy and with them that rejoice.
Every one became my friend from his own opinion;
none sought out my secrets from within me.
My secret is not far from my plaint,
but ear and eye lack the light.
Body is not veiled from soul, nor soul from body,
yet none is permitted to see the soul.
This noise of the reed is fire, it is not wind:
whoso hath not this fire, may he be naught!

In our woe the days of life have become untimely:
our days travel hand in hand with burning griefs.
If our days are gone, let them go — 'tis no matter.
Do Thou remain, for none is holy as Thou art!"

This body, O youth, is a guest-house:
every morning a new guest comes running into it.
Beware, do not say, "This guest is a burden to me,"
for presently he will fly back into non-existence.
Whatsoever comes into thy heart from the invisible world
is thy guest: entertain it well!

Every day, too, at every moment a different thought comes,
like an honoured guest, into thy bosom.
O dear soul, regard thought as a person,
since every person derives his worth from thought and spirit.

If the thought of sorrow is spoiling joy,
yet it is making preparations for joy.
It violently sweeps thy house clear of all else,
in order that new joy from the source of good may enter in.
It scatters the yellow leaves from the bough of the heart,
in order that incessant green leaves may grow.
It uproots the old joy, in order that the new delight
may march in from the Beyond.

Whenever the thought of sorrow comes into thy breast anew,
go to meet it with smiles and laughter.

My heart is a mirror, bright as the sky:
its polish was the image of my Beloved.
When my Beloved saw the image of Himself
in the mirror of my heart, He was pleased with His own image.

What is the meaning of the mirror? It is the heart of the lover.
The rust thereon is the world;
the polish thereof is the remembrance of the Beloved.

The religion of Love is apart from all religions:
for lovers, the only religion and creed is God.