غزل شمارهٔ 3

O bring me back the singing, the airs of long ago; bring back the sweet, sad music to set cold hearts aglow.

Too hushed is mosque and temple, too silent church and shrine; stir up a thousand tumults with that dark glance of Thine.

Fill me the fiery goblet that made my dust to flame: Youth thirsts anew, desirous, and youth shall quaff the same.

The pipe that sets a dancing the heart within the breast, the wine that moves the spirit and melts and soul oppressed:

Soft amid Persia’s rushes the breeze of morning sings: Bring me the spark that trickles from those melodious strings.