Classic Poem

Glad to me the time when I fly to my beloved one;
It is to me as though to Spring's gardens I betook me;
Her hair has she unbound, I am sprinkled with fragrant musk:
How shall I now again to any perfumer ever betake me?
May God grant me in my home that peerless black-eyed beauty,
Now that she has favoured me; to Farkhar why should I betake me?
The plaints of wounded hearts grieve those at ease and happy;
My anxiety is in this, lest to my grief I now betake me.
Wheresoe'er the thorn is, there's the place of blooming roses;
Therefore with this hope to the thorn-bush I betake me.
What witchery has she wrought me by her wiles, I am astounded:
To my death should she be minded, yet to that cruel one I betake me.
Countless are the tyrannies which she hath wrought upon me,
Natheless, will I nill I, to that tyrant I betake me.
Sweet indeed the loved ones which my eyes have gazed on,
Now with bitter tears to their tombs I pay my visits.