Hakikat na puch mere fasane ki,
Tere jate hi badal gayee najar jamaane ki,
Log kahete hai ki khush hu mai,
Lekin meri to aadat hai gum me muskurane ki.
mujhe dil ke khata par ‘yas’ sharmana nahi aata
paraya jurm apne naam likhavana nahi aata
bura ho pa-e-sarkash ka ki thak jana nahi aata
kabhi gumrah ho kar reh par aana nahi aata
mujhe ae nakhuda aakhir kisi ko muh dikhana hai
bahana kar ke tanha par utar jana nahi aata
musibat ka pahad aakhir kisi din kat hi jayega
mujhe sar mar kar teshe se mar jana nahi aata
asiro shauq-e-azadi mujhe bhi gudgudata hai
magar chadar se bahar panv phailana nahi aata
dil-e-behausala hai ik zara si tis ka mehman
wo aansu kya piyega jis ko gham khana nahi aata
Their errors have been weighed and found to have been dust in the balance; if their sins were as scarlet, they are now white as snow: they have been washed in the blood of the mediator and the redeemer, Time.
He had an uncommon fondness for cats. As an old man summering in New Hampshire, Twain even rented kittens from a nearby farm to keep him company until he returned home. "If man could be crossed with the cat," said Twain, "it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat." There's always something about your success that displeases even your best friends.
Wo humara imtihan kya lagi.
Milege nazro se nazar to,
Apni nazre jhuka legee,
Use meri kabra par deeya jalane ko mat kahna,
Wo nadan hai dosto apna hath jala legi
One more royal trait properly belongs to the poet. I mean his cheerfulness, without which no man can be a poet,--for beauty is his aim. He loves virtue, not for its obligation, but for its grace; he delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the lovely light that sparkles from them. Beauty, the spirit of joy and hilarity, he sheds over the universe.