Arise, for in plain, hill and dale, spring clouds have pitched their tent. The nightingale sings jubilant songs to a choir’s accompaniment. Along the stream bank’s whole extent blend tulip’s tint and rose’s scent. Let your eye witness this event. Arise, for in plain, hill and dale, spring clouds have pitched their tent.

Arise, for to the fields has come the flowers’ caravan. The breezes of spring blow again. The birds sing songs in unison. The spring-mad tulip’s dress is torn. There is a new rose to adorn Beauty, and for love a new thorn. Arise, for to the fields has come the flowers’ caravan.

The Nightingales are carolling, the ring-doves coo a loud. All warmed up is the garden’s blood. O’ you, in silence closeted, break all commands of your save head; get drunk with mystic wine instead; sing and go in rose-petals clad. The Nightingales are carolling the ring-dove coo a loud.

Abandon your retreat and into fields and pastures go. Sit by a brooklet’s margin so that you may watch its waters flow. Spring’s favourite, the narcissus, how the pride of beauty makes it glow! O plant a soft kiss on its brow. Abandon your retreat and into fields and pastures go.

O you, who cannot see the obvious, open your mind’s eye. See tulips row on row, and see their bodies on fire seemingly, but their hearts inwardly soothed by the dawn-dew’s tearful ministry – stars in a twilight-reddened sky! O you, who cannot see the obvious, open your mind’s eye.

Sprouts from the garden’s soil: The secret of Creation’s heart. The shadow-play of attribute; how essence brings itself to light; life, as we all imagine it; and. death, which is life’s opposite; O all this is without a root. Sprouts from the garden’s soil the secret of Creation’s heart.