By dint of spring the poppy-cup, with vintage red is over-flown: With her advent the hermit too temperance to the wind hath thrown.

When great and mighty force of Love at some place its flag doth raise, beggars dressed in rags and sack become heirs true to King Parvez.

Antique the stars and old the dome in which they roam about and move: I long for new and virgin soil where my mettle I may prove.

The stir and roar of Judgement Day hath no dread for me at all: Thine roving glance doth work on me like the Last Day’s Trumpet Call.

Snatch not from me the blessing great of sighs heaved at early morn: With a casual loving look weaken not thine fierce scorn.

My sad and broken heart disdains the spring and dower that she brings: Too joyous the song of nightingale! I feel more gloomy when it sings.

Unwise are those who tell and preach accord with times and the age. If the world befits you not, a war against it you must wage.