You are not attracted to wine, and you do not look at me: How surprising that you do not know the art of mixing!

It is but a tune of quest, a flame of desire, your sigh, your song.

With your song you have made such a lovely world that paradise itself appears to me to be some conjurer’s trick.

You charm travelers’ hearts with pointed talk except that, in the pleasure it gives, one cannot compare it with the sharp thorn.

What can I do, for by nature I am not someone who can live for long in one place! My heart is restless, like the west wind in a field of tulips.

The moment my eyes light upon a pretty face, my heart begins to long for one prettier still.

In the spark I seek a star, in the star a sun: I have no wish for a destination, for if I stop I die.

When I get up, having drunk a cup of wine matured by one spring, I begin to sing another verse, and long for yet another spring.

I seek the end of what has no end – with a restless eye, and hope in my heart.

The lover’s heart dies in an eternal heaven – in it no afflicted soul cries, there is no sorrow, and no one to drive sorrow away!