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No account of thee thou writest, Past although is many a day
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He, in whom desire of traffic With thy down, my sweet, shall be
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The Wine-seller old to gladden, The Easterly breeze hath come
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Fragrance, East Wind, from the pathway Which the fair doth wend, bring thou
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All compact of grace and beauty Is my loved one's moonlike face
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From the doorway of the winehouse Solace for our pain seek we
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I've limned with thy face's likeness The tablet of mine eyne
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When the Maker the fashion the form Of thy heart-easing eyebrows pourtrayed
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Never once her lip of ruby Did we pree; and she is gone
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The Universe from end to end, One moment's care unworth it is
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