غزل شمارهٔ 13

It is the season of the spring and nightingales are carolling; O smile on me, and chant a song, and freely pass the wine along.

Behold the tears that I have shed, then on Thy beauty turn Thy head; O set my heart of reeds afire with the swift lightning of desire.

And bid the breeze of spring, I pray, unto my fancy take its way and paint the valley and the plain with beauteous images again.

Flower in the mead that blossometh, receive new freshness from my breath; amid Thy bower, since I was born, I lived beside the rose and thorn.

On my heart’s touchstone then assay this world of water and of clay; my heart shall prove a mirror bright reflecting all Thy shade and light.

Thou ’st never gambled with Thy heart, nor of the world had any part; when in Thy presence I would be, what day of reckoning I see!

The aged ringdove in the glade hearkened to my lament, and said, ‘No songbird ever carolled here so sweet an air of yesterday.’