Remember me once every year.

O poet — and if I should want you to return, how is it to be done?

Set your lamp in the window when the Pleiades appear in the sky.

On the morning of the following day the royal court decreed the betrothal of Princess Jinan to Prince Wa'il. The princess with-drew to her chamber, weeping and sobbing, having lost all desire for anything, and she kept murmuring to herself: Ah, poet! You have left me no heart to love and be happy. All I want is your sweet voice, your beautiful poetry, and your big heart.

The princess had no device to resort to, for she knew better than anyone her father's resolve, and his fixedness upon his own opinion.

When the Pleiades appeared in the sky, the princess's lamp was shining, and she saw him leap over the wall with his lithe figure.

The poet said: Your bright lamp will always guide me — a sacred flame I shall take refuge in whenever the road grows rough.

O poet, calamity has struck. Do not sing me any of your poetry tonight.

Your words, princess, stir grief and sorrow in my heart. What is the matter with the princess?

They want to marry me to Prince Wa'il.

And did the beautiful gazelle hope to stay far from the hunter's eye?

How marvelous this simile of yours! You understand, then, that I am a victim. For I know only two persons whom the gazelles have charmed: the cruel hunter, and the tender poet.

You wrong Prince Wa'il by saying that.

I wrong him? And what do you know of him?

I know nothing — and therefore it is not just to pass a harsh judgment against him.

But, poet, let us leave off speaking of him. Do you know what I have resolved upon this night?

I shall count myself greatly hon-ored if the princess tells me what she has resolved.

I have resolved to come to you.

Are you not afraid of me?

I no longer care about anything.

I hope to prove worthy of your good opinion of me.

Moments later the princess reached the foot of the stairs, slipped quietly into the garden, and then stopped suddenly.

What does the princess command — shall I advance, or withdraw?

Advance.

Then the poet advanced, and the princess gave him her hand; he took it gently, lifted his mask, and kissed it.

I shall always remember your beautiful poems in my new prison.

My poems are an inspiration from you, which I raise up to you.

It grieves me that you should regard Prince Wa'il as a jailer.

Enough of defending Prince Wa'il. Will you not tell me your name?

I have no name, now that I have known you. I wish to be known only through you: your servant, your poet, your friend, or whatever titles you please.

Your tenderness frightens me.

How so?

It is the tenderness of rock turned into a beautiful statue — say, the statue of a wretched beauty, or of an unhappy young man.

It is your love that fashions of me all that you see.

O poet, your kingdom is wider and more spacious, more majestic and loftier than mine. What horizons does your beautiful imagination not reach, what treasures does your tender heart not embrace! But will you not take off this mask of yours?

No.

And why?

A vow I took upon myself, and I do not yet see myself released from it.

What is this on your finger?

A ring. I shall count myself happy if you would condescend to take it.

Yes. And here is my handkerchief for you.

I shall count it a banner for which I shall strive unto the very end.

Do you know that I shall tell Prince Wa'il the truth of the matter imme-diately after the wedding feast? They say he is gallant and gener-ous. He may take pity on my state and loose my bonds. Then I shall come to you, and you will take me to the desert you used to tell me of.

No, princess — I will not consent for you to poverty and wandering, after the glory of palaces.

You are a coward, then.

If it pleases you to call me such, I am content, so long as this preserves the good name of a pure lily from being soiled by tongues.

I must go now. I wish you every happiness and contentment with Prince Wa'il. Forget me, princess, if my memory brings you misery and pain; but if it stirs joy and gladness in you, then remember me when the Pleiades climb into the sky, when the gardens are

perfumed with the fragrance of blossoms, and when the lyres play melodies full of remembrance and of calling.

You treat me ill. I shall set my lamp in the window after the wedding feast. Farewell.

Farewell. I shall count myself happy indeed if you remember me even at the wedding feast.

* * *

After the wedding feast, Prince Wa'il drew near to Princess Jinan and said to her, "I hope you will be happy, my dear." Her eyes brimmed with tears — how fiercely she remembered her graceful poet.

What makes the princess weep?

The princess's happiness depends upon the prince's forbearance.

I am ready to ransom the princess with my soul, if that would secure her happiness.

The princess wishes to be set free.

Is the princess a prisoner, that she should make such a request? I hold the princess mistress of her own affairs; I give her a free hand in all my palaces and gardens, and all who are in the palace, from its master and lord down to the least among them, are slaves and bondmaids to her.

All this is fetters and chains that wound the princess.

Am I to understand from this that the princess's marriage came by compulsion, against her will?

Yes. Her father is harsh; he has no pity for her state, and he would never forgive her if he knew that the princess's heart was occupied with love for a strange, destitute poet. And so she relies upon the prince's forbearance, and the nobil-ity of his nature, to set her free.

The prince bowed his head for a long while, his face gone pale, then murmured: The prince's forbearance and the nobility of his nature will make of him chaff scattered by the wind. But listen — what do you say to my giving you a space of three days to think it over? I shall go hunting, and upon my return I shall bow to your will, if you are still averse to me then; and something unforeseen may happen, and this plan of ours be changed. Farewell, princess. I wish you a happy time.

When night came, the princess could not bring herself to light her lamp in the window, so great was her confusion; she sat in the dark near the window, recalling in her imagination the poet's sayings, his wit, and his tenderness. But when