The bride of the rose is come Again to the Feast of Spring;
Where is the bulbul sweet-tongued? Say, " Lift up thy voice and sing! "

Plain not of severance, heart; For rose in this world and thorn
Are coupled and up and down And gladness and sorrowing.

Bent double, bow-like, with grief Am I; yet no word I breathe
Of leaving the brow-browed fair, Whose eye-glances arrows fling.

Abroad by thy browlock blazed My heart's distraction's grown;
No wonder of musk it is If it be tale-bearing.

From Time Unbegun and not Now only, I, heart-distraught,
My face on thy threshold laid, With burning and wearying.

All one in the way of Love To Hafiz are hard and eath;
What differeth hill from vale, Indeed, to the bird on the wing?